Not All of Me Shall Die
by fortes fortuna iuvat
Summary: "To be honest, Caesar," I tell him, playing up my western drawl. "I'm a semi-literate farmer. I ain't really in the game." Cato/OC
1. Prologue

**Prologue_  
_Non Omnis Moriar_  
_**_(Not all of me shall die)_

* * *

As Cass Whitlock stands in her crowded pen amongst the frightened uneasy youth, she is unsettingly reminded of cattle in line for slaughter. In District 10, the bitter irony of the reaping is not lost of most of the citizens that herd the perimeter to watch the scene play out. The entirety of the apprehensive crowd bears much similarity with the livestock the district butchers daily. They know what is coming. They are grouping together tightly, the fear across their faces is as clear as the bowls that hold their names.

Cass is wiping the heat off her brow, glancing around at her peers. She eyes each and every one of them, deciding whether or not they would last more than a minute in the Games if they were unlucky enough to be chosen through the lottery. She eyes them the same way she sees her father stare down the cattle at the ranch, wondering if they'll survive a hot summer in the pasture of the wicked southwest.

A boy is nervously kicking at the dust beneath his boots, a small cloud of earth rising with every hit. Cass notices he is pale, and thinner than most of the boys that work grueling hours under the sun in her district.

_He must not work on the ranches._

She assigns him a death at the Cornucopia; he would be easily picked off in the first few minutes during the bloodbath. He would probably run for the supplies, overestimating his abilities and underestimating those of his peers. Cass now recognizes him as the son of one of the larger land owners in the district. Her expression visibly sours. Citizens like her father work around the clock, while the wealthy, majority holders sit back and watch.

A bitter look crosses her face when she realizes that her predictions are pointless. He's not going to be chosen either way. He doesn't need the tesserae, not like the rest of the District 10, who work day and night to scrape up enough to feed their children, and only after they take care of the Capitol's precious cattle.

It isn't until this very moment that panic begins to settle uncomfortably in Cass's chest. Twenty-four entries with her name written on it in bold, brash writing lay in the glass bowl somewhere, waiting to be picked. Fear seeped into her at a steady rate, but she shuts her eyes tight against the whtie sun and tries to forget. Cass is strong. She had survived her mother's abrupt death and raised her sister as her father worked on the ranch, only making enough to scrape by. Cass is brave. She recalls the night she had killed a coyote in cold-blood with her daddy's axe. But when the day of the reaping rolled around each year, nightmares plagued her sleepless nights and a weight as heavy as the cattle they raised sat in the bottom of her gut.

Cass Whitlock takes pride in her maturity, invulnerability, and overall fearlessness. She is not an apt scholar, nor athlete. Those things were trivial, inconsequential. She takes pride in the fact that her seven year old sister looked up to her, looked up to her as a source of strength, wisdom, and guidance.

Every year when Reaping day rears its ugly head on District 10, Cass Whitlock feels as vulnerable and afraid as she did the night her sister was born and her mother was dead. There was nothing that Cass hates more than feeling helpless. At the tender age of ten, she was motherless, as helpless as she had ever been.

Twenty-four entries. As she stands in line with the seventeen-year-olds at the reaping, lambs in line for slaughter, she tries to picture where they might be in the clear bowl. Perhaps it was that smaller paper pressed against the side. Maybe it hung at the very bottom.

She scoffs at this thought. She convinces herself it didn't matter. She could do nothing but watch as a polished Capitol hand dipped into the opening of the rounded glass and picked up a cleanly folded note. Her stomach drops immediately. Cass is silently calculating probabilities that it is her name. She wishes she had listened in fourth year math a little better.

As the Capitol hand is unfolding the paper, Cass Whitlock desperately turns around and searches the crowd behind her.

_There._

She spies her father, holding her little sister's hand tightly. His eyes are worn, worried, and tense. His calloused, dusty hand rubs the back of his neck nervously. She looks down at her sister and an involuntary smile spreads across her face. Willa Whitlock's short, blonde hair stuck out at all angles. The braids Cass had managed to pull them into that morning had finally been defeated by the hot, heavy air and her sister's tendency to play around in the pasture. Willa had never been very good at keeping polished.

Cass remembers being that young, when the time of childhood stood still and the pulse of the living desert pressed its mystery into her. She would stand behind the older children ripe for picking at the reaping, hiding behind her mother and giggling at her father's appearance after a long day under the unforgiving sun. She recalls she would race home to their humble adobe ranch after the reaping, eager to get the day over with. Her parents were always so tense that day. She never understood. Not until she herself stood helpless before the merciless hands of the Capitol.

She remembers the first year after her mother had died. She remembers staring outside of her window, counting the hours, watching the milky moon replace the blinding sun, waiting for her mother to come home. Every night she waited.

And every night the cold, harsh hand of reality hit her hard.

Cass Whitlock hates feeling helpless. She hates feeling control slip away from her hands as she did those nights.

She is grateful, though, she realizes. She is grateful that her baby sister is too young for the picking. She is grateful she is the only Whitlock standing at the reaping this year. Perhaps, she thought, by the time she turns twelve, the barbaric games will finally be put to an end.

Cass shakes her head at the invasive thought. It was almost certain such a day would never come.

Every year as she waited for the name to be picked and drawn out of the crystal bowl, she feels the same way she did waiting for her mother to come home after her death. She feels the same way as the cattle she coaxes to the slaughterhouses.

Her little sister notices her now. She shoots her a toothless grin and waves with pudgy hands. Cass manages a weak smile back.

She turns around, facing the stage. Cass Whitlock is ready.

The Capitol hand is reading the name silently, eyes darting across the tiny slip. She raises it high in the air, an unsettling grin on her face.

The voice booms through the square.

"Cassia Whitlock!"

Cass feels as though the hot, blistering sun might strike her dead any moment as she walks down to the stage. Her stomach is churning, and her skin burning, but she paints her face bravely, and raises her chin to the applause.

Although she is now District 10's female tribute for the 65th annual Hunger Games, she is still Cass Whitlock, who took pride in her maturity, invulnerability, and overall fearlessness.


	2. At Spes Non Fracta

**The main character of the story is Willa Whitlock, sister of Cass Whitlock from the prologue.  
**

**Enjoy the first chapter!  
**

* * *

**Chapter One  
At Spes Non Fracta  
**_(But hope has not been broken yet)_

* * *

As I lay in bed the night before the reaping, I contemplated whether or not I should rise. The sun had set a long while ago, and this was the third time I had broken my slumber. When I was little girl, I slept lightly. My father would laugh when I ran into his room in the middle of the night, awoken by the whistling western wind, asking if I had heard another pin drop.

Now I find it is the dead silence that keeps me awake.

Sitting up in my bed, I lean against the cracked wooden frame and pull my thin blanket to my chin, shivering is the absence of the warm sun. My sight adjusts to the dark room as I look around. My room is petite, yet quiant; it is nearly empty aside for a tattered dresser, a nightstand and some books, and a dusty old mirror hanging beside an afghan my mother had sewed. My eyes fall on the empty bed across from mine, and I stare at it blankly. The sheets are now old, flat, and yellowing, and have not been touched in nearly ten years. My father once tried to take it from my room, worried for my sanity, worried that my sister's vacant bed might do me more harm than good. I screamed at him, though, furious that he would try to take a part of her away from me, and slammed the door in his face. I remember the weak walls of our ranch nearly shivered at the force, bending underneath my rage. Cass Whitlock, my older sister, died at the age of seventeen as a tribute in the sixty-fifth annual Hunger Games. Anger blinds my vision once more, livid at how soon she was ripped from my grasp by the Capitol, wrathful at the fact that at age seven I had rooted for all else in the arena to perish, eager to have her back in my arms. I choke back a dry sob, quickly stopping myself before tears pool in my eyes. The lanterns that hung from the tin roofs of the adobe ranches shone into my room, snapping me out of my morose state. I pull myself out of bed, and dress myself in the dark quietly. I grab my blanket, and head out the door.

I am grateful the walk from my bedroom to my kitchen is short; now wearing my boots, it is difficult to quiet the rattling spurs as my heel hits the wooden floors. I step lightly and easily, not eager to awaken my sleeping father. He isn't exactly fond of me sneaking out in the middle of the night to go out into the whispering wilderness. Amongst coyotes in the plains, rattlesnakes in the desert, and cougars in the rocks, District 10's wildlife is much besides unforgiving. Silently, I reach beside our old wooden stove to retrieve some salted pork for breakfast. I chew it mindlessly as I start to leave my home.

A draft opens my bedroom door ajar. I cautiously turn around as it creaks behind me, a black sliver against the aging, wooden walls. I walk over slowly, carefully pulling it open ever slightly, as if it might disintegrate in my hands. I glance around my lonely room. My sister's old single bed sits right in the center of it, frayed sheets swaying gently in the western wind. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, and cover them with my hands. I pray and I pray and I pray; I pray to a God that has forsaken me, grasping at straws, humiliated the the level of desperation I have reached. I pray that once I open my eyes, I will see my sister laying there in her long, white nightgown, sleeping off the hours of work at the ranch. I pray that once I open my eyes, I will see her folding her clothes into the dresser. I pray that once I open my eyes, they will land on her reading _The Great Gatsby_ for the millionth time. I pray that, once, I will win against the rigid truth. I open my eyes. Reality wins again.

My heart aches at the sight of my vacant habitat. I shut the door curtly, eager to look away from the void room, a reflection on my equally desolate heart.

* * *

As I walk to the stable, I see the flaming sun beginning to rise over the tops of the cottonwood trees and the thick, heavy shadows disperse to bring dawn. The melancholy mood of the night lifts along the dust of the desert, and aside from the cries of birds settling to roost piercing the cold air, a thick, eerie silence fell upon the land. The fog of the western dawn circles around me like a shroud, enveloping me, calling to me, pulling me in. The drone of the crickets and the sigh of the wind in the trees whisper to me. The juniper-spotted hills in the distance begin to reappear as the white sun replaces the milky moon and finds its place in between two mesas high in the valley.

I shut my eyes and take in the sweet reticence of the landscape. I wrap my blanket tightly across my shoulders and pull the creaky door open to the barn, taking in the comforting sound of the horses breathing deeply in their slumber and the soft smell of life. The hay settles underneath my feet as I walk to the first of the three stables holding single horses. I realize, walking up to the stirring creature, that he is awake too. Cass's old horse, August, had been passed down to me after she had become a fallen tribute. I took great pride in him. For the past ten years, we had ridden together, whether for work, herding the cows, or for pleasure, on long rides through the red sunsets.

The horse is getting old. His heavy body slumps with each breath, and his glossy brown coat is soon becoming duller and duller, gray hairs sneaking up slowly. I stroke his mane gently, and he neighs low. My breath steadies as I lean in against his nose, and I give silent thanks for this majestic animal. I am one of the luckier ranching families in the district; many of the residents are farmhands and workers on the giant ranches that the wealthiest citizens, puppets of the Capitol, own. Perhaps, even worse, some are employees in the slaughterhouse. My father, and his family before him, had worked years for this humble, rickety ranch and decent sized herd of cattle, as well as a small chickenhouse and a few hogs. The Whitlocks have known the lands of 10 since before the mesas in the valleys had even formed. Even time seems to stand still for the rickety adobe ranch that appears to have been in existence for eternity. My father has endless stories of the history of the desert, stories I listen to eagerly. Still, he works around the clock, exhausted at the end of every day, but it is his own ranch, and to him, to a cowboy, that is all that matters.

August neighs restlessly, eager to get out of the closed barn and out onto the barren western horizon. I nod, and climb onto him with a grunt of exertion.

"Come on, boy," I whisper low under my breath, a gentle mumur the horse seems to understand as he whinnys. "We're gonna go see Cass."

* * *

The thin morning wind whistles in my ears as I urge August to speed up from his trot. A wide smile spreads across my face, nearly involuntarily, giddy from the rush of floating across the dusty, parched land of District 10. I am flying steadily, my worries and fears whipping behind me. I recede as far from the rustling cattle as possible, the gentle lowing overpowered by the muffled sounds of hooves. And then it was only the hooves; the hooves and the horse's breathing.

I glance up at the night sky, the array of stars fading quickly, and the promise of dusk whisping at the horizon, only a few hours before tendrils of heat would be rippling along the landscape. For now, though, the cool air is relieving, and I am happy that I am no longer in the confines of my home; I am now free, racing alongside nature.

My heart beats rapidly as we go further and further. Citizens were not allowed to go past the perimeter of the ranches at this hour; the danger of the wildlife and dust devils were too high. But I knew these sun-baked lands, I knew the pulse of the humming earth and the blazing sun, I knew the coyotes and the jackrabbits and the mule deer. The knowledge of District 10 flowed as easily as the blood through my viens. These lands are my religion.

August now slows down to a canter, and soon, a trot; he is familiar with our annual ride to the cemetery a few miles outside of our ranch, and stops at the creaky metal gate. I slide off of him, and let him graze around the perimeter of the graveyard, munching on the patches of dry brush.

I walk a straight line to a humble stone.

_Cassia Whitlock  
Fallen tribute  
65th Hunger Games_

Resentful tears never fail to sting my eyes and blind my vision. How _dare_ they engrave that on there? Cass was more than a fallen tribute or pawn in the Games. They write it as if it means something.

As if it justifies a young life taken away.

I lay down on the dusty ground, leaning against the gravestone. I shut my eyes once more, comforted by the proximity to my sister. Raising my arms up to cradle my head against the hard stone, my sore shoulders complain at the sudden action. Long, grueling hours under the blazing sun – herding cattle, throwing hay, and reining in horses proved tasking on my body. Yesterday, I spent the entire day hacking away at spiked yucca branches that invaded our ranch fences with an axe, and finished off the evening with the killing of a few rabbits that had fallen prey to my thrown knives. They had taken the bait of the lone Joshua tree a few hundred yards in front of our ranch, resting in the shade of the branches. My father and I were overjoyed at the rabbit meat for supper. Really, though, anything other than grits, dried meat, and stale bread with milk for dinner proved to be cause for celebration.

I rest my head on the ground now, giving in to the exhaustion racking my body, wrapping my blanket tight around me, but cold wind sneaks in anyway. I try to rest, although I remember that reaping day means no school or work. Still, I had not slept a full night in a week, and am confident that the cold, dusty ground near my sister's gravestone is a better way to lull me to slumber than the shabby, frayed bed in my empty room.

* * *

By the time the sun is hot and high in the sky, Lorelai Bailey is kneeling above me, shaking me awake.

"Wake up, sleepin' beauty," she drawls out, grinning at me brightly. "Only a few more hours 'till the reapin'!"

I stare up at her, but quickly avert my gaze; my eyes do not adjust to the bright light that shines above me, and I shielf my face with my hands.

"Willa? Darlin', is everythin' alright?"

"Yeah, " I reply, mimicking her accent teasingly. Mine was a subtle twang, while hers was drawn out and stereotypical District 10. "Just peachy, sweet pea."

She rolls her eyes at me, but she glances at the headstone that I'm leaning against and she softens. Lorelai knows I get apprehensive around the time of the reaping. Lorelai knows most everything about me; she knows me more than anybody else since Cass had passed on.

Lorelai befriended me when I was a lonely, solemn seven year old who watched her sister's murder on national television. The minute Finnick Odair plunged his trident through the abdomen of my sister, I remember, it had shattered my childhood into a thousand fragments that long ago stopped falling and are now dusty relics gathered in distant memories. She was the first to make eye contact with me after my loss, and walked up to me after school one day, two months afterwards.

_"Hi. I'm Lorelai Bailey. I'm in your class and I'm comin' over to your house today."_

Her mother walked her to my ranch-house that day, and she waltzed in, plopped down on the bed, and asked if she could braid my hair. I soon learned that Lorelai Bailey was difficult to shut up, and it was even more difficult to tell her to. For the last ten years, she had been at my house nearly every day, helping around, keeping me company, and riding her horse out into the pasture with me.

I glance at her. Lorelai could have been my sister – we both share the same blonde hair and chestnut eyes, muscled arms and tanned skin. Although, mine was blotchy and peeling from the heavy air and blazing sun, and her skin was polished and tan, unaffected somehow by the insane heat.

She comes from a large family – she is the youngest of seven brothers and sisters. I remember my father has asked her when she came over one day in second grade, had asked her with an amused smile across his worn face why she was over so often.

Lorelai had shrugged and after looking around at our empty house, said _"I think y'all need me more than my family does."_

I can't help but smile at the memory, until Lorelai's rattling voice snaps me out of it.

"Look, if I don't get outta this goddamn sun in the next minute," she says, glancing up at the burning sky, wiping the heat off her forehead. "I'm gonna pass out, I swear to it. I brought my horse and some water, let's go find some shade."

My mood brightens visibly at the mention of water. The supply at my house was running thin, and we were rationing the majority of it out into the troughs for the cattle. Lorelai grins at the sightof my weak smile. Her family recieved a significantly larger amount of water considering how big of a group they were.

"Yeah, Will." She pulls me up brashly and brushes some dust off of my torn jeans. "I got water."

* * *

The beauty of the west reveals herself annually with the new blood of lush spring. The plains are beautiful in early afternoon, beautiful before the hot summer sun burned it dry in months to come. The mesquite bushes are green, and even the dagger yucca is stately as it pushes up its emerald stem that blossoms succulent white bell flowers underneath their needles. Jackrabbits bolt from shady thickets and bound away into the dark juniper hills. The sun is white and warm in the clear, azure sky. All the while, the dust on the humming ground rolls across the pastures, the gentle lowing of our cattle settles, and the sweet smell of late spring drifts through the barren lands.

But with the honey taste of spring comes the bitterness of the reaping. When life turns anew in the district, and life sprouts in the otherwise dead lands, children gather round in frightened groups, fear tying them together tightly with an iron lasso. Lorelai and I know this, so we flee further from the ranches and the town and the people, and find a spot near a boulder and a tree to rest and sip at the thin plastic bottle of tepid water; no matter how warm the liquid is, we take it eagerly. Thirst runs rampant through our district. The few bodies of water that exist around the area have now been fenced up and heavily patrolled; the consquences of getting more than your fair share of water were severe. I shiver at the thought of being whipped in public at the stage of the Justice Building. The Peacekeepers do what they can to keep a harsh regime, even with such a sparsely populated district. I'm immediately grateful we decided to sit so far from the town.

Lorelai and I sit underneath a dark juniper up on the hills, unharvested spring cotton flowing lazily in the air from the empty east. No one lived out past the dusty mesas of the valleys for all I know. The Capitol didn't need anybody to. All they needed was for us to raise healthy, strong cattle for their dinners; and so the cotton floats along the orange horizon untamed. Every once and a while, Lorelai snatches a tuft of the soft white stuff and blows it away on her hand. Usually, Lorelai is loud and talkative, but now that the reaping is nearing, she quiets and sits solemnly. I start doze off in the sweet silence of the spring air, but suddenly, her drawl cries out.

"Nopal pears!" Lorelai runs behind the tree and to the cacti in the sun. She cries out with joy and points to the prickly-pears of the nopal that hung off of the fuzzy green skin of the plant. "Come over here!"

Eagerly, I run over, and I join Lorelai in picking every last one of the succulent fruits. Prickly-pears were as much as a rarity as water in the district; the Peacekeepers tend to pick the plants clean before any of the citizens reach them. We are indeed breaking the law, picking these fruits which were not rightfully ours, but such fresh food is limited in the barren landscape of 10, so we risk it. Both of our bags are heavy with the harvest. Lorelai grins as we sit down by the shade of the juniper once more.

"I think the last time I had one of these," she tells me as she peels the itchy skin off the pear carefully to reveal red-ripe flesh, "was when I could hardly reach the tip of the nopal to pick one!"

I laugh joyously, the taste of the fruit and the smell of spring lightening our moods.

"I was surprised you could reach them now," I tease. She sticks out a red-stained tongue at me.

We sit in silence for a little while. The quiet is interupted by the sound of a whistling train in the distance. The Capitol escorts have arrived. Lorelai visibly pales; I can tell she's wondering whether or not she'll be on it by the end of the day.

"Lorelai, your name's only in the bowl five times," I say quietly. "They're not going to pick you."

She scoffs, and runs her hand through her long, blonde braid, her brown eyes serious for the first time in a long while.

"You know that don't matter, Will," she says with somber eyes. "Remember Becky, last year? Her name was only in twice and she was picked."

I frown.

"My name is in twelve times," I say. "Twelve."

We needed the tesserae a few times. Our humble adobe ranch lacked the extra hands to help around that the Baileys had. The laws surrounding District 10 prevented us from eating the butchered livestock and anything else we harvested from the outside lands. We could only eat the dairy products the cows produced and the meat I hunted in secret. The meat we raised was for the Capitol, and for the Capitol only.

Lorelai is regretting her previous statement about Becky. She thinks a little while, before one of her smiles graze her face.

"Well, Becky had rotten luck, anyways." She stands now, eager to be rid of the conversation. "I need to go into town to pick up some feed for the stables."

I get up and dust off my jeans, nodding. We help each other up to our horses, tying the bag of pears to the saddle, and we are off.

* * *

We are in town within the next ten minutes. Our "inner-city" – if you can even call it that – consists of tattered wooden buildings and is only a few miles wide. We hitch our horses at the posts near the boundaries of the town and enter. It is humming with activity today; Peacekeepers in stark white uniforms crawl out of whatever saloons they hide out during the majority of the year and resurface for the reaping, sticking out like herons against the inescapable dusty hue of the district. Generally, due to the sprawling nature of 10's population, Peacekeepers tend to lay low, letting the ranchers do their work as needed. Aside from keeping monthly tabs on the count of our cattle and rationing our water supply, the Peacekeepers only stepped in to take care of severe law-breaking. That didn't happen often in 10, save for the occasional drunken feud between cowboys in empty dives or the desperate parent sneaking unaccounted water to their thirsty child. Every time the reaping rolled around, however, the Peacekeepers showed a considerable force – perhaps reminding us that even the laidback lands of District 10 could not escape the firm grip of the Capitol.

As we pass the Justice Building, anxious looks cross both of our faces, the impending inevitability of the horrible event bringing us back down to earth as the stage is being set up for the reaping. The Justice Building sticks out like a sore thumb in the rickety town; although it is weathered and aged by the the constant dust storms and heat waves of 10, it is still the epitome of architechture in our humble city. Lorelai speeds up her walk, eager to get away from the square, not really wanting to spend more time there than we had to. I follow her lead, and we walk into the nearest feed store.

"Howdy there, girls," Randy, the graying shop-keeper, greets us with an enthusiastic grin. Business is slow in 10 around this time of year. Aside from a hovering Peacekeeper in the corner of the shop, monitoring the shop duties to assure no unlawful trade occurs, the store is entirely empty. Feed shops are only really needed for those with horses; the cattle has a supplied food source straight from the Capitol. Often, the cattle is better fed than the farmers themselves. My father and I seldom went hungry, but we had humble meals of stale bread and grits most days of the year. We were hardly graced with the meat we raise. "What can I do you for?"

Lorelai clutches the small bag of money in her hands tightly, eyeing the menu of prices on the chalkboard that hung above Randy.

"Feed is up by that much?" She frowns. "We got four horses back home."

Randy nods soberly. "Rain ain't fallin'."

Most of District 10's population was sustained by small, meager crops in the backyards of the small adobe houses that lined the desert that managed to survive amongst the amber grass. Although it was technically illegal to raise food for yourself, the Peacekeepers turned the other way when it came to the humble farming that took place in 10. The crops meant one less impoverished soul the Peacekeepers had to deal with. This season has been dry, however, and the rains of spring haven't arrived yet. Some were worried whether or not they were going to arrive at all. Dust storms have been rampant for the past year, old top-soil blowing through the district.

Lorelai sighs with shaky breath, and hands over half of the rattling coins in her small leather pouch.

"I only got enough for about a third of the usual."

The shop-keeper silently reaches for a burlap sack of heavy feed and slides it over the counter to Lorelai.

"You need help carrying that out?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I got it."

We walk out of the lowly store and I sling the bag over my shoulder. My arm complains at the sudden weight, but I ignore it as we continue to the posts.

"That's only enough to feed one of your horses for a week," I tell her.

Lorelai's eyes are somber when she replies.

"Rain ain't fallin', Willa."

* * *

Our trek back to our horses is quiet and laced with our worries for today's possible outcomes. The air around us is heavy with heat and discontent. Although the town seems empty, a citizens few linger on splintered benches or around the old school. We walk in silence, but a snarling voice snaps us out of our reticence.

"Hey, you two, what you got in that there bag, huh?"

I'm nearly positive I see Lorelai shudder as Ocie's voice reverberates through us. We turn around with confirmed suspicions. He is an ugly man, with skin the color of burnt leather and patchy tufts of hair around his rough face. He grins a mirthless smile at me, revealing a row of slimy yellowing teeth, his brown eyes wrinkling with the unkind gesture. Ocie is no Peacekeeper; he was born and bred by the dusts of 10, but he could be buried by them for all the rest of us care. He gives tips to the Peacekeepers in return for extra food or water. Although the need for supplies is desperate in 10, nobody stoops down to the level of the Peacekeepers to recieve extra aide. We manage to retain our last shred of humanity with an unspoken bond of the ranchers and farmers. Because in District 10 all we had was the cows and the wind and each other.

"I _said_," Ocie stands from the shaded bench, wiping dirty hands on even dirtier trousers, spitting a thick wad of black tobacco to the side of the road. "What you girls got there in that there damn bag, huh?"

We stand still. Regret runs through me; why hadn't we stopped by home to drop off the pears? Why had we been walking around town with an illegal harvest around the only time Peacekeepers ever showed a threatening presence? I have the sudden instinct to run, run before he calls over a Peacekeeper to escort us away, but I remember the burlap sack of feed that hung heavy over my shoulder. Growing impatient, Ocie huffs and walks over to Lorelai. He snatches up the bag and dumps out the contents. We hold our breath.

Green fruit rolls out and his dark eyes widen.

"Well, well." A malicious grin twists his ragged face. "What do we have here? Out pickin' some pears for me?"

Lorelai scowls. He steps close to me.

"Today's your lucky day," he sneers. "I ain't gonna report you, it bein' reapin' day and all. I'd hate to ruin such a celebratory day on account of some snivelin' troublemakers."

He dares stride even closer, but Lorelai and I remain still and silent. Ocie's eyes burn with the sting of whiskey as he bores into me. The stench of foul liquor rolls off of his flattened denim jacket in thick wafts. I wonder whether or not he had ever bathed in his entire life.

"Let's hope you ain't gonna follow in the shaded footsteps of your sister, now, huh, _Whitlock_?" he says. I hear Lorelai shuffle, ready to pounce back with either violence, insult, or perhaps both, but I hold out a hand to stop her. "That'd be damn near shame, wouldn't it now?"

His voice is as low and deadly as the rumbling thunder of summer storms in the west.

Lorelai can't hold back, and words tumble out of her mouth before either of us can stop it.

"You'd sell your damn soul to the devil for an extra grain of rice, you damned old man."

Ocie stumbles back and laughs, real and low, with heavy guffaws. We're both surprised by the action; we'd expected a hit, a punch, maybe even calling over the Peacekeepers, but not this. Perhaps old man Ocie has finally had a shot of whiskey too many.

"You bet I would," Ocie says. "Ain't like I'm using it anyways, darlin'."

With that, he picks up a few pears, turns on his heel, and disappears into some smoky saloon.

* * *

Heading back home to prepare for the reaping, Lorelai and I part ways quietly, and I climb onto August and begin trotting towards the direction of my ranch. The western quietude calms me for a few moments, before remembrance of the reaping dawns. I begin to urge August to speed up.

My home smells of cow feed and burnt oil, the familiar creaking of wood under my boots consoling my wandering thoughts. I look around for my father to remind him it is the day of reaping, although it is unlikely he has forgotten. It is unlikely anybody has forgotten. Finally, I see him through the window, standing out on our old back porch underneath the tin roof, staring out into the rolling plains were cows gently grazed along. I open the back door and find a place next to him.

"Finally decided to pay your old man a visit, huh?" he says with a solemn smile, ruffling my hair. "Where you been?"

His worn brown eyes are distant and half-covered by a wide-brimmed, torn leather hat.

"Lorelai and I went into town to get some feed," I tell him. "The sun is really baking today. I heard someone outside of Randy's shop talkin' about some dust storm that's coming this way, that true?"

My father nods.

"Ain't always been this dry, you know," he tells me. "Ain't always been this empty. When I was your age, that there grass was as tall as a brooding horse, as green as the mesquites. Before the fire."

Before the fire. Of course. Before the fire, before the Capitol, before the settlers. I have heard these stories a million times, my father's subsitution for fairy tales to lull me to sleep. Before the fire. Before the thick flames blew across our district, scorching our cattle and eating our crops, nearly three decades ago. We called it the Great Fire at school, but most citizens refuse to talk about it. Some called it the devil's work, as much as penance for our sins as the Hunger Games are every year, but my father knew better than that. The fire happened almost immediately after District 10 accrued their first victor of the 49th Games.

When I was younger, I longed to hear his stories over and over again. I longed to learn about before, because before held everything. Before held Cass Whitlock.

District 10 had been more than a livestock capitol. My father told me of cotton-picking in the east, whiskey that flowed in the dry counties, potato fields and broom corn in the lush top-soil of the northern plains. I closed my eyes sometimes, and I could almost see the rows and rows of green broom corn, could smell the sweet scent of growth in the damp earth. His stories would always return to the development of the District 10. The plains were first populated by sheepherders; then the men imported cows from the south, and the men became cowboys whose daily lives were wrapped up in the ritual of horsemanship in a wild and desolate desert where the land was ripe. But then the railroad came, and the barbed wire came. The wailing songs of the coyotes matched those of the cowboys who hummed around an open flame, and the free land became property of the Capitol, and the cows became breeded, branded cattle. The freedom of the land and the sky they had known was gone. The people were uprooted. They looked around one day and found themselves closed in. But these people could not live without freedom. 10 rebelled soon after 8 had sparked the fires of revolution, and only soon after, the flames were doused and the Games became a ritual of penance. A sour look would always cross my father's face when he spoke of the cowboys in our district today.

"A cowboy needs more than a few cows and a patch of land," he had said once. "They ain't no cowboys out here no more."

My father was cryptic, but I knew what he meant. The ranchers and citizens of 10 laid low together in faux-harmony in return for better treatment from the Capitol and the Peacekeepers. But the death of Cass stirred something in him. He craved to set fire to the Capitol as they had our district and our life.

"I should go get dressed," I say. The reaping was in an hour. Death penalties for those who refuse to show up.

He nods silently, not moving his gaze from the desert. I turn around to leave, but I notice my father's hands are shaking with the remembrance of the reaping as he takes off his weathered hat with trembling fingers.

"Pa?"

"Yeah?"

"Everything gonna be all right. Dust's gonna settle, rain's gonna fall."

He knows I mean more than the weather with my quiet statement. A rare smile tugs at my father's lips.

"You become more and more like your sister everyday, Willa."

* * *

Reaping day has arrived in Panem.

The sweet heat is beating down hard on the backs of the crowded youth in the town square. We are all frightened, tired of being pricked and prodded, and eager for the day to be over. The stage is set up, and family members herd the perimeter of the group of potential tributes. The space gets tighter and tighter as late comers roll in, and I glance around, looking for Lorelai.

I spot her a few feet behind me. She wears a fine sleeveless white blouse similar to mine – most of the girls in 10 didn't bother with frilly dresses. A clean shirt and new boots was good enough for me. Lorelai smiles at me and winks, no fear evident in her face. I'm instantly envious; I can feel sheer terror penetrating.

I'm trying to steady myself, to breathe deeply; anything to stop my heart from thudding in my chest, pounding in my ears, and causing blood to rush to my head.

_If Lorelai can do it, so can you._

The stage before the Justice Building holds three chairs, meant for Marcy Millington, our Capitol escort, and Brayburn, our mayor, as well as Bonnie MacFarlane, victor of the 49th Hunger Games and now mentor. Our second mentor, Quincy Hudspeth, victor of the 62nd Hunger Games, is nowhere to be seen. I bet money he's off with some belle he found in town, nursing a bottle of whiskey in a dusty saloon. He had better things to do then help some sniveling kids. Mayor Brayburn begins to rise from his seat as everybody settles into their pens. Mayor Brayburn's crisp, polished suit does nothing to help the discontent he has garnered towards himself during his time in office for 10. Our mayor is too much on the Capitol side of things for anyone to like him.

He starts to recite the history of the Games. He only gets to the uprising before I feel as though I am going to heave up the contents of my stomach.

_Be Cass Whitlock. You _are _Cass Whitlock. You are brave and strong and fearless. You can do this. You can survive the reaping._

My words do little to convince myself; my hands are still shaking as I run them through my hair.

Marcy Millington rises to speak into the microphone. There's a visibly sour expression on her face. I suppose she is bothered by the smell of the cattle that wafted through the plains and into the town. She's straightening out her ridiculous dress, which is covered in the same splotches as our cattle. Very cute, Marcy.

She taps the microphone, and her frilly, airy voice is booming through the square. Marcy is going on and on about how ecstatic and thrilled and absolutely excited she is. She announces she will start with the female tribute.

Her glossy, polished hand dips into the opening of the curved glass bowl and toys with a few of the crisply folded sheets before she decides she is content with the one the slides into her palm.

She clears her throat. A current of panic runs through my veins.

I suddenly feel dizzy, claustrophobic, completely aware of how close everyone is around me. The hot, heavy air is sticking to us, the sweat not evaporating from our skin. I am overwhelmed, and long to be back home, riding out on the open pastures with August. I feel like cattle being herded together, mindless, brainless. I feel like the cattle is pulling in tighter and tighter around me as Marcy speaks.

"Willa Whitlock!"

And then suddenly, suddenly the cattle parts around me like the Red Sea. Suddenly, I can breathe. My stomach stops churning, and the blood rushes from my face, my heart no longer pounding in my ears. My legs and arms are wobbly as I begin walking towards the stage, but I can see and hear as clear as I ever have.

District 10 applauds for me when Marcy asks for it, and I stutter out my name and age when pressed for it. Everyone is staring at me with pitiful, melancholy looks. They realize I am Cass Whitlock's sister. I can almost taste the bitter irony.

Mayor Brayburn reaches his hand out to me, congratulating the tribute sent out to represent his district. I don't want to take it, but I do. The smile on his face seems unnatural as the polished suit he wears. He reeks of gunpowder.

"Good luck, Miss _Whitlock_," he leans in close. "I'm sure crowd will simply be on _fire_ for you."

They say the devil smells of sulfur.

* * *

I have never been inside of the Justice Building before. It had always held a certain mystery to me when I was young, glancing past it, watching as officials and Peacekeepers walked in and out with serious looks on their faces. Soon, though, I am sitting inside of an empty room with peeling wallpaper, my sweaty back sticking to the leather couch. The entire building is aged and modern all at once, with dim lighting but elegant chandeliers. Suddenly, my father barges through the heavy doors, escorted by a Peacekeeper.

"_Three minutes_."

He pulls me into his arms and I dig my face into his chest, never wanting to leave. I realize this is probably the last time I will ever see my father. I want to cry for him. His wife and two daughters have been ripped away from him.

He breaks the hug, and holds my face steady with his hands. My eyes are dry, but I feel fuzzy and can hardly hear him as he speaks.

"_You are strong. You once took down a cougar with my axe. You have survived harder things than this. You are a Whitlock."_

He is trying to remind me that Cass's death has made us all stronger, and that I can survive this. I do not have the heart to tell him wrong.

_"Dust's gonna settle, rain's gonna fall."_

I nod mindlessly, pulling myself back into his arms, eager for his embrace once more, craving the comfort of human proximity. His voice rumbles in his chest as he speaks.

_"I love you."_

A Peacekeeper opens the door and takes him away, and I am left alone once more.

* * *

I hear Lorelai's loud, raging voice long before the doors are swung open and she marches in.

"Goddammit, Willa," she says, her voice shaky for the first time since I have met her. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?"

She lunges for me, arms wrapped around me tightly, before she pulls away and starts to speak.

"Listen to me, Wil. Listen. You are so goddamn strong and so goddamn smart that if you don't come back from the arena I'm gonna be out a hell of a lot of money because I'm gonna be bettin' my entire goddamn ranch on you, you bet. I, I remember you once killed a cougar when we were up in that time in the goddamn rocky pass! You gonna win this one, Willa. You gonna come home and we gonna go down to Randy's, and you gonna finally buy yourself a sweet tea. You gonna win, I swear to it. I can see it. I swear to it. You gonna win. You gotta get an axe, or a knife, or goddammit, anything to throw, I swear. I don't care if you gotta rip the limb offa someone to use it as a weapon, you gotta win, Willa, you gott-"

I finally shut her up as I pull her into my arms, and she cries silently in my arms for the next minute, before someone is pulling her away from me.

She's screaming at me as the Peacekeepers are trying to take her from the room, failing miserably as she props her arms against the frame of the door, fingers gripping tightly as she struggles to stay in my line of view.

"I'm gonna see you soon, Willa! I'm gonna see you soon!"

* * *

As Peacekeepers escort me out of the building and to a vehicle, dark clouds rumble in the spring sky. Water begins to drip, first like a dry faucet that's been out of use for too long, and then, with a sudden clap, rain rushes out in steady waves.

I look up at the cold drops that wash away dry tears and heavy sweat.

The rain is falling.

Hope is not broken yet.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I had a lot of fun imagining what District 10 must be like. **

**_fortes fortuna iuvat _**


	3. Nos Morituri te Salutamus

**Chapter Two  
Nos Morituri te Salutamus  
**_(We who are about to die salute you)  
_

* * *

After a long ride in a guzzling vehicle, I find myself standing, alone, in front of a sleek, metal train. It approached us several minutes ago in a cloud of soot, dust rolling off it ominously like a cloak. The wheels glared bright, shrieking as they came to a stop in front of us, clunking like a gun, blowing heat out of its core and into the burning, southwestern air like a bull. I am the last to board, the last to step onto the train that will haul me to my death. My body is paralyzed in terror; I had never left the parched lands of District 10 in the entirety of my seventeen years. I am sure this is the last time I will see the dry dust blowing past somber trees, the last time I will hear the low rustling of our cows, the last time I will feel the blazing desert sun licking at my skin. I take it all in with a heavy breath, forcing myself forward and onto the hunk of metal. I turn back slowly as it begins to move, and I cannot tell whether it is the speed of the train or the tears stinging my eyes that blur my vision as I kiss the scorched lands of District 10 goodbye.

I walk through the glass doors into our cart, and immediately, cold air envelopes me. Seventeen years in the unforgiving heat of the west, and I had never been graced with the luxury of air conditioning until this day. I instantly decide that I dislike the artificial breeze. It is simply another reminder that I am far, far away from my home.

Bonnie MacFarlane, one of our mentors, is sitting at the empty dining table, with her boots, black as sin, hitched up and onto the table in front of her, chewing the fat with my fellow tribute, Weston Hughes. Marcy Millington is eying Bonnie's poor table manners with a sour look on her face; I wonder if she is ever pleased outside of the Capitol. Quincy Hudspeth is nowhere to be seen. Bonnie looks up at me; I have been spotted.

"Well, lookie here!" Bonnie is smiling brightly at me, the skin around her pale blue eyes wrinkling. "Finally decided to grace us with your presence, huh, sister?"

I greet them awkwardly before I find a seat next to Weston.

As Bonnie kicks her legs back under the table, Marcy lets out the breath she had been holding. Unfortunately, Bonnie's elbows are soon on the table, propping herself up, and Marcy is once again stiff.

"Come on now, sister, don't just sit there like a frog on a log! How old are you, girl?"

"Seventeen."

"Just like my boy, Mr. Weston Hughes, here" Bonnie is grinning at me as she points to the solemn boy beside me, and surprisingly, her smile is as genuine as her deep, western drawl.

I glance at him slightly. I had blanked out after I took my place on stage at the Reaping, and only caught that my fellow tribute was a tall boy with a strong stature. Weston Hughes. The name rings a bell.

Squinting my eyes as I scrutinize him, I notice that although he is strong and well-built, his skin is more than a few shades lighter than mine, a sign of wealth and privilege. Suddenly, realization dawns.

_Hughes._

He is the son of well-known Dixon Hughes, owner of the majority of land and ranches in District 10. The Hughes have been buying out old mom and pop ranches and businesses that had been surviving in my district for decades, putting them out of businesses, forcing them to work under their large corporation. Dixon Hughes is an empire, more powerful than our bumbling mayor and local "government"; an empire that rules with a harsh hand that, dare I say, rivals the Capitol's. Now, it is more than ever apparent Hughes is no more than a marionette. He must be fuming. Even Dixon Hughes' son was not spared from the greedy hands of the Capitol. For a second, I wonder whether or not the Reaping was staged, as if to say, '_see, even _he _isn't safe from our wicked grasp'._

Weston's hands are folded in his lap, and he clutches them together tightly, knuckles almost white. His brown eyes haven't looked up since I have walked in. I pity him; I pity that even his priveliged life could not be spared. Weston only moves to nervously run his hands through his short, strawberry-blonde hair.

Bonnie is getting bored.

"You two are tighter than strings on a fiddle," she says, urging us to loosen up. Please. I expect her to know what it feels like to face an impending death. "What can you two do other than mope? You look pretty strong there, West." She leans over, and squeezes his muscular arm.

"I guess," he says, his voice quiet and raspy. I can hear in his voice that he had been crying not too long ago. "I help around in the barns sometimes."

She turns to me next.

"I work on my father's ranch," I say, wearily. "I can hunt okay, too. I can make use of an axe or some knives."

"Hell, sister, look at your arms! I bet you can pick up a damn cow with those guns!"

I blush at Bonnie's comment, and before I can respond, the glass doors open once more, and Quincy Hudspeth has finally made his way to our cart. Bonnie rolls her eyes, a scowl crossing her usually bright expression.

"Thank you for joining us, Mr. Hudspeth," Bonnie tells him with monotone sarcasm lacing her drawl. "Take a seat. You'll be pleased to know we have some adequate tributes on our hands."

She turns to us, covering one side of her mouth with one hand as if she's telling us a deep secret.

"Most of the time," she starts in a low voice, "We usually get kids that don't have enough sense to pour piss out of a boot." She winks at us as if we know what in the name of Panem she is talking about.

Weston and I exchange puzzled looks. Exactly how did this woman win?

Quincy sits down in between Bonnie and Marcy, his eyes unreadable as he scrutinizes us. He had won a few years after Bonnie, youth still apparent on his handsome, rugged face.

"They're not too shabby looking either," Quincy says, sitting back, and crossing his rattling boots at the ankles, pleased with us. "I can work with this."

Bonnie is nodding.

"I remember, last year, we got these poor kids that were uglier than a mud fence," she tells us. "I'm nearly positive a horse had kicked that boy's face in a few times."

I can't help but chuckle lightly at Bonnie's bluntness. I notice a smile is now grazing Weston's previously stony expression. My mentors are right. The boy is handsome. He has a noble look to him, compared to the rugged cowboys like Quincy that populate the majority of our district. He is obviously wealthy, pampered. A clean white dress shirt highlights his soft, beige skin, a few buttons undone, and sleeves rolled up. The Capitol would love him. He sees me looking, and I turn away quickly, embarassed.

Quincy notices the interaction between the two of us, and I am grateful as he turns our attentions elsewhere. "As much as I enjoy staring at this fine, empty table, where the hell is the food?"

"I agree," Bonnie says. "I'm so _hungry_, I'd eat the balls off a low flying duck!"

Laughter erupts at the previously solemn table, the tributes grateful for the fleeting moment of carelessness.

* * *

After supper, Marcy guides us to the next cart over; it is a plush room, couches and pillows abundant throughout. A television hangs from a wall. We are to watch the Reaping of our fellow tributes. Ideally, we're supposed to see what we are going to be facing up against, and of course, Bonnie and Quincy aren't going to let us forget that.

District 1's tributes are typical Careers – a tall, light-skinned blonde that emulates a goddess, strong and sure, as well as an even taller boy with dark hair and a built physique. They are both volunteers, arrogance radiating off of them; I pick up on it even through the screen. The commentators, Claudius and Caesar, are running on about how beautiful they are, how they will be swimming in sponsors. I'm jealous of the pair. They are the first to be shown, and will not be easily forgotten.

I wince audibly as I see the tributes from 2. A monstrous boy with icy blue eyes and an even icier expression lunges forward to volunteer. He is easily a product of the Academy; from his blank, condescending appearance, complete with a self-absorbed smirk, you can tell he has only known training and killing. He is a machine. A Career. The girl after him is chosen through the lottery, but by the way she waltzes up on that stage with a smile that rivals her district partner, you couldn't tell. Although she is easily a few years younger than I, she is neither shorter nor smaller. The sinister gleam in her eye gives me chills.

The Reapings from the next several districts are unremarkable; Weston and I zone out, but Bonnie and Quincy urge us to keep watching.

Finally, it is our district's turn. I slide to the edge of my seat, not sure whether or not I wanted to watch myself on the thin screen. I hear Marcy's voice through the speakers calling out my name. The cameras flash to my face, and to my surprise, and later, gratitude, my face is unreadable, blank. I look as though I had been expecting this, as though it's simply an inconvenience. In reality, though, I was dying inside, crumbling with each step as I walked to the stage, shock paralyzing my expression. To the other tributes, though, I must have seemed cold and ruthless. Weston shows a little more emotion, horror penetrating his expression, but it will go unnoticed.

Quincy remarks on my horrible appearance. Bonnie hits him on the shoulder for this, but it's difficult not to agree with him. My hair was wild, long, and teased by the heavy air of daytime in the southwest. Skin blotchy from the insane heat, my blouse was the only highlight of my look. It was sleeveless, showing off my one asset. My mentors are worried that my lack of polished beauty at the Reaping would only help me lose sponsors. A look of delight crosses Bonnies face, though, and she shushes the complaining cowboy next to her.

"Wait!" she says. "Listen!"

The spurs on my worn boots had audibly rattled through the speakers, my heels clicking as I walked with a careless swagger on the stage near the Justice Building, my face unreadable, hair flying wild in the desert wind. Quincy is grinning. He knows how to sell me.

"_Looks like we have ourselves a rough and tough cowgirl here!" _Caesar had said.

Bonnie scoffs.

"You're a hell of a lot more of a girl than she is, Caesar," she says with a roll of her eyes. Quincy snorts an agreement, and even Marcy can't help but grin at the diss to the Capitol commentator, who indeed was quite feminine.

Weston laughs next to me, and smiles at me with warm eyes. For a moment, I appreciate Weston Hughes, Bonnie MacFarlane, Quincy Hudspeth, and even Marcy Millington. For a moment, hopelessness seems to dissapear.

* * *

Soon, we are dismissed to our own private bedrooms. The room is significantly larger than I would have thought it would be, considering we were on a train. Plush pillows lay on large, feathery bed in the center, a television similiar to the one we had watched the Reapings on hung on the wall adjacent to it, and a giant wardrobe stood in the corner. For some reason, I am disgusted by the over-the-top, flashy, flamboyancy of it all.

Fury flashes in my eyes. Fury at the Capitol; fury at the Capitol for taking my sister away, for taking me away, for taking _so _much away from everybody. I am angry, raging, inflamed, scorching like the sun that had burned me so many times. I can hardly breathe as the situation hits me, pure ire and hate racking my emotions.

How _dare_ they take my sister? How _dare_ they take me right after?

Frantically looking around the room, I take one of the large decorative pillows and chuck it hard. It makes a direct hit with a lamp, shattering on the ground. I throw another. And another. Soon, all of the pillows are off of the bed and feathers stream around the room. A framed painting lays on the ground. It is still not enough. I reach for the alarm clock that sits on my nightstand, ready to throw it, but I notice a sillouhette in the entryway of my room.

Quincy Hudspeth is leaning against the door frame, expression stony and unreadable as his hazel eyes stare at me. He takes a few steps towards me, and pulls me into his arms. I realize that my face is wet. I had been crying the entire time and hadn't even noticed.

My mentor's kind gesture was not lost on me. I dig my face in his chest; he is warm, and smells like home. I never want to leave Quincy's arms as he's patting me on the back, letting me sob all over his plaid shirt.

"Let it out," he says with a quiet, constricted voice. "Let it all out today. Tomorrow, we're gonna be in the eye of the hurricane."

I say nothing in reply. I have calmed my tears now, but I haven't found the strength to rip myself away from Quincy's embrace.

"I remember your sister," Quincy says, voice low. "She looked so much like you."

I glance up at him now. I realize him and Bonnie must have mentored Cass as well.

"Really?"

Quincy nods, and continues.

"She was a fighter, just like you. She told me she had to get back home to her Pa and baby sister. She said she didn't care what she had to do."

He's holding my face steady with both of his hands just like my father had done earlier today.

"Fight for her, Willa. Fight for her like she did for you."

* * *

After Quincy had left, I stepped around my room cautiously, pieces of glass still lay on the floor after my tirade. I open the wardrobe, and take out a nightgown.

The silky fabric cascades down my skin, and I pull the warm covers back on my bed, wrapping myself up tightly. I am exhausted. I'm sure the stress of the entire day had ripped years of my life away. Considering, of course, that I'm still alive after the end of these three weeks.

_No, _I think. _No, Willa. Remember what Quincy said. Fight for Cass. _

I wonder what my father must be doing right now. I wonder if he watched the Reapings, watched his daughter being taken away from him one more time. I wonder what Lorelai is doing, and whether she had watched. She probably didn't. She was probably off making bets that I'm going to be this year's victor in some saloon. I smile at the thought.

I shut my eyes tightly, eager for sleep to find me.

When it does, I dream that I am back in the cemetery of District 10.

I dream that I am laying on Cass's grave once more.

I dream that tall, lush, elegant trees sprout from the parched, scorched land, growing skyward. I dream that I climb them, all the way to the top, the sun burning with every branch. I dream that I climb so high, I can nearly touch the heavens above me, can nearly touch the celestial kingdom where Cass resides.

_I'm going to win for you, Cass, _I had said, facing the sky. _I'm going to win._

* * *

Sunshine streams through the windows of my room, and a loud rapping at my door pulls me from my quiet slumber.

"Rise n'shine, darlin'!" I hear Bonnie's voice on the other side of the door, yelling. "You got one hell of a day ahead of you!"

Reluctanly, I rise out of bed, throwing my legs off the side. I find my way to the private bathroom in my room, and climb into the large, elaborate shower. I take no time at all with the gadgets available to me on the right side of the shower wall; if regular old bar soap and a tub of lukewarm water cleaned me up just fine back home, then a quick squirt of one fruity-smelling gel will be enough for me. I marvel at the warm, running water, though, and how freely it flows, as if there is a never ending supply somewhere on the other side. I stand underneath it for a long time. Water, unsurprisingly, is reasonably scarce back home. It is rationed out to us and our cattle. Standing under such a free-flowing stream of clean, good water, I am tempted to grab a bucket and fill it up before it wastes itself down the drain.

I wrap myself in a towel afterwards, and am fussing with the dryer until I call for Marcy, completely clueless as how to work it. She comes quickly, and rolls her eyes when I hold up the hair dryer sheepishly. After helping me turn it on, it roars, blowing hot air at my hair until it is bone dry. It is smooth and tame now, no longer a wild mane as it was the day before. My skin is still slightly dry and blotchy, but the warm water had helped it a bit.

Pulling open the drawer to my dresser, I find some knit black pants that hug tightly, and I take comfort in how softly they grip at my legs. I pick up a cotton shirt and a wool cardigan, and pull on some warm socks before I find my way to the dining cart to eat breakfast.

Quincy, Bonnie, Marcy, and Weston are all already chowing away at an impressive display of foods. I realize how hungry I am.

Quincy and Bonnie are grilling Weston, serious looks on their faces as they speak with him. Quincy is using dramatic hand movements, and Bonnie's bright expression from yesterday is gone. Today, we are getting down to business. We have no time to spare.

Bonnie notices me, and waves her hand frantically.

"Sit on down, sister! We got things to take care of!"

I find a seat next to Weston. Quincy begins speaking.

"Listen, kids," he starts. "This is what's going to happen. I'm gonna train ol' West over here, and Bonnie's gonna train Willa. Got it?"

We nod.

"Good. Now, we're gonna roll into the Capitol any minute now. Any questions before this happens?"

West and I exchange looks. We're both too scared to speak.

"I, I just want one of us to win," I say quietly. "That's all I want."

Bonnie scoffs.

"Well, good, darlin', because if you didn't, then, hell, I'd be a stuck duck in a dry pond!"

* * *

The sheer size of the Capitol bewilders West and I. Our town back home was no wider than a few miles, and was made up of meager, wooden buildings built by tired farmhands. It did not compare in the slightest to the architechtural advances that were the Capitol.

We had stepped out of the train with wide eyes, the bright, candy colors of the crowd shocking us. So many people had come to see the arriving tributes. As Bonnie had said, '_there were so many people you couldn't stir them with a stick!'_ West and I had waved wearily to the screaming Capitol citizens.

Now, I'm laying on a cold, metal table in the Remake Center, waiting for my stylist. They hadn't bothered to wax my skin as roughly as they did other tributes. I'm grateful that my blonde hair blended with my tanned, beige skin well, especially after hearing the yelps that came after the rip of a wax strip. My skin is no longer blotchy and dry; now, it is radiant and one-toned, scrubbed clean. My fingernails are sanded down to perfect ovals.

I hear the door to the waiting room open, and I rise from the table to greet my stylist. The level of indulgance the Capitol citizens put into their looks never fails to shock me, especially as she walks in. Her hair is dark forest green, cascading in supple waves; her eyebrows are black and angular, her skin unnaturally pale, and her lips are a dark burgandy.

"Hello, Willa," her voice is, surprisingly enough, low and mellow, a stark contrast to the high-pitched, strung out tones of the Capitol citizens. "My name is Tertia."

"Hi," I say, breathless. "I'm Willa."

Tertia laughs good-naturedly. "I know."

Right.

She sits down at one one of the leather couches in the room, and motions for me to find a seat across from her.

"You've got a good look, Willa. Very District 10. I'm sure you're aware of the custom to dress tributes in representation of their district?"

Unfortunately, yes. Tributes in past years have been costumed in ridiculous outfits, often in over-the-top cowboy uniform, or once, even an actual cow suit. My sister was one of the luckier ones, and was dressed in simple ranch-wear.

"Your district is mostly parched lands, correct?"

I nod wearily.

Tertia leans forward, her eyes narrowing.

"Are you familiar with the name Sekmet?" she asks me, the name rolling off of her tongue easily.

I shake my head this time in response to her strange question.

"According to Egyptian mythology, she is the goddess of the sands, a lioness. A warrior. It is said her breath created the desert." Tertia stands now, pacing around the room slowly, dramatically using her hands to tell the story.

"She is the fiercest hunter known. Sekmet is the one before whom evil trembles, the mistress of dread, the lady of slaughter. She resides in the sands of the desert."

She is standing closely to me, and this time when she speaks, her voice is quiet, low, and restricted.

"You, my dear, are Sekmet."

* * *

After hours in the hands of Tertia and her helpers, I am transformed. My dress is the color of the scorched lands of my district, and although it is layers upon layers of fabric, the silk feels light on my skin. My shoulders are bare, my long and wild hair flowing down upon them. My tan skin is glowing, dusted with a shimmery, bronze powder. My eyes dark, and my lips blood red, a lioness who had just made a kill, and I finally see the appeal of Sekmet.

I am the the one before whom evil trembles, the mistress of dread, the lady of slaughter. I am pleased with how my stylist had decided to dress me. I hope it makes a reasonable impression.

Standing on a chariot with West, he is dressed in similar garb.

"_Weston is Set, the god of the desert storms," _Tertia had told me earlier.

He is visibly trembling with fear, and I notice that I am too. Bonnie and Quincy are standing next to us in the underground level of the remake center, a stable which is holding our chariots, pulled by horses, until the ceremonies begin.

"Well, aren't you a magnolia in May!" Bonnie compliments me, blue eyes sparkling. "They really did a number on y'all this year."

I try to steady my breathing, but as I glance around at the other tributes, my heart plummets. I see the boy from 2, standing tall and proud in gladiator wear. I realize now that he really is handsome. Lorelai would be swooning. She had always been the one to go for the boys; although we both had tanned skin and long blonde hair, our similarities stopped there. She was tall, beautiful, and spoke with ease. Lorelai would have waltzed up to him and asked him if she can feel his arm. I, however, stand unwavering, glaring at him. He spots me looking, but I can't tear away from his icy eyes until Quincy stops me.

"Don't make eye contact with any of the other tributes," he warns. "You'll have plenty of time to do that later."

Now, I'm gazing around at different mentors. I am immediately grateful that I have Quincy and Bonnie. Compared to some of the broken, harsh, or cold teachers that I see around me, I have the best of the best. My eyes fall on a man with sea-green eyes and bronze hair from 4, speaking with his tributes.

My stomach drops, and I breathe in so quickly that the air rushes to my head, and I wobble back before West holds me steady.

"Are you all right?" he asks quietly, worry lacing his deep voice. His eyes follow my line of sight, and sees that I am looking directly at Finnick Odair. My sister's murderer.

"Oh," he says. "Oh."

I cannot bear to look away from the wickedly beautiful man. I cannot stop my thoughts from trailing back to when I was seven, watching the Games in the town square. My sister had been in the top four, she had pulled out until the very end.

Finnick had shot her with an arrow, point-blank range. I remember screaming as she fell. I remember someone wrapping me up in their arms, wrapping me up tight, but the brutal truth seeped in anyways, without regard to my emotions.

He feels my gaze on him, and turns my way. He narrows his eyes. He recognizes me from somewhere, but he cannot pinpoint from how he knows me other than the mediocore tribute from District 10. He starts to make his way over to me, but fortunately, the giant doors open, and chariots begin to roll out.

I grab West's hand, fearing that I will fall off at any moment as we ride through, the shriek of the crowd drumming through my ears. We look at ourselves up at the screen, and the extra layers of fabric are trailing behind us, a sheer sandy breeze. I am frightened by how cold and dreadful my face looks, by how my hair embodies that a fierce lion's mane, but I remind myself this is good. This is all in my favor.

I see the boy from 2 staring at me, not ripping his cold gaze from mine. I ignore Quincy's warning and continue glare at him. I am a lioness now, and he is a meager mortal. I finally look away from him, deciding that he is hardly worth a goddess's attention.

Flowers fall around us, and I hear our names and district number screamed over and over. I wave, not sure of what else to do, and another adoring shriek erupts from the crowd.

_We who are about to die salute you._

* * *

**Thanks for reading.**

**_fortes fortuna iuvat_  
**


	4. Adsum, Qui Feci

**Chapter Three  
****Adsum, Qui Feci  
**_(Here I am who did it)_

* * *

The elation from the adreneline rush that pounded through my veins during the ceremonies was short-lived, as fleeting as the foolish confidence that was fed by the goddess image my stylist had painted me as. The second our chariots roll into the very bottom of the Training Center, my head begins to spin, aftershocks of the surreal experience. I realize my ears are buzzing in the absence of the roaring crowd, and I can hardly see through the fallout of the glittery powder my prep team had generously coated me down with. Eager to hop off the chariot, I nearly tumble into Quincy whilst doing so; my depth perception seems to have been decimated by the speed of the horses, and the flashing cameras all around don't help much either. Men in scintillating silver suits are snapping pictures of all the tributes in their representative costumes; Weston and I can hardly keep from laughing at how the Careers are soaking up the attention, posing with ridiculous faces.

I had finally just regained my ground, the spinning beginning to subside, when a short man in with a bright blazer and even brighter camera flash takes my photo. I immediately start to blink madly, stumbling back, taken by surprise. Dazed once more, Quincy shoots the man a look that sends him scrambling, and Bonnie yells something after him about a deathwish.

"Go on an' git upstairs," Bonnie tells me. "Tenth floor. We'll be outta here faster than a knife fight in a phone booth," She winks at me and points me in the direction of the elevators. I hastily gather up my dress in my hands, and start making my way over to them. I'm grateful I'm let off so easily; Weston and the other photogenic tributes that are desirable to the Capitol are held back for more pictures.

My breath regaining itself as I walk, my shoes are clicking against the marble floors once I exit the stables; I'm comforted by the steady, even sound. Compared to the to the deafening roar of the Capitol crowd, screaming and cheering me on before my death, this is safe and predictable, patterned and uniform.

As I'm searching down the wide, opulent halls that are heavily guarded by Peacekeepers in white uniforms, my mind begins to recall what had just proceeded during the ceremonies. I'm shocked by my boldness once more, how unfaltering my cold gaze was, directed at the monstrous boy from 2. Since when was I so dauntless and intrepid? My mood sours as I realize that this seemingly audacious act was nothing to be proud of. I had been foolish to stray from Quincy's advice to not hold eye contact with any of the other districts, especially not the one who would easily slice me into bits without so much as a blink. There was now a huge target on my back; I know that he will be thirsty for my blood before anybody else's.

I let out a sigh of relief when I see the silver doors of the elevator, and push the glowing button to call for the cart, waiting patiently.

Only am I allowed a few seconds of silent thoughts before I hear footsteps approaching . I'm much too tired and much too sick to even spare the energy to turn my head to see who it is. I stupidly assume it's probably Quincy, Bonnie, or Marcy coming to accompany me to our floor.

"Hello."

The wind rushes out of my lungs so quickly that I feel as though someone had hit me square in the chest with heavy force. My heart starts to pound uncontrollably, rushing blood to my head. I immediately regret my decision to part from my group and go up to our floor without them. Why hadn't I waited like a good tribute would have? _Why_ hadn't I waited?

This voice was low, smooth, seductive, definitely not anybody from District 10; the same purr that I had heard in countless interviews on the Capitol television; the same purr that I had despised for nearly a decade.

"My name is Finnick," he tells me, ignoring the fact that I hadn't greeted him back, dealing with my awkward silence well. "District 4 mentor."

_I know,_ I want to say. _I know exactly who you are._

He waits a while for me to say something, but instead I bite the inside of my cheek to hold my tongue, piercing the skin, and ignoring the taste of blood in my mouth as I push the elevator button another few times in desperation. I don't allow myself to say anything in reply. Undoubtedly, it will be something stupid and something I regret.

"You look so familiar," Finnick continues, carrying the conversation single-handedly with practiced ease. "Have we met?"

I desperately wish I could think of something, _anything _to say back to him; instead, only bile rises as I try to open my mouth. I keep it shut tightly.

I am so, _so_ tempted to scream at him. To scream at him until my throat gives out, until the guards that hover over the entire Training Center are forced to tear me away from him. I want to scream at him, ask him why he can't remember my sister. Why he can't remember killing her in front of the entire world for me to watch.

Finally, I am sick of the drawn out, tense silence between us that only I seem to be affected by. I swallow my lunch that is threatening to rise, and clear my throat.

"Willa Whitlock," I say, my voice raspy and shaking, but at least it's there. I take a few steps towards him and look him straight in the eye, my gaze unwavering.

Finnick nearly steps back as his eyes widen, realization dawning. A whole wave of emotions are evident in his eyes before he looks down and away from me. Surprise, guilt, regret, sadness. Something I guess only a victor of the Games can feel.

"I look a lot like her," I continue, slowly gaining back my voice, turning away from him. I feel my eyes starting to water, but I realize it's because I hadn't blinked the entire time. "Especially now."

For some reason, I pity Finnick Odair, if only for a split-second. He seems genuinely regretful of what had gone down in the arena. It must seem as though he can never truly leave the Games, no matter how hard he tries. Especially not with the spitting image of one of his last kills standing in front of him with an accusing look on her face. The pity disperses as quickly as it came though, fleeting, especially as I watch the District 4 victor turn and walk away from me before mumbling something under his breath. I don't catch it, nor do I care to.

The elevators doors only open once Finnick is out of my sight, and I can't help but wonder if it's some cruel joke the Gamemakers are orchestrating for me. I walk in quietly and lean against the rail in the cart. I take pleasure in the vacancy of it, glad it is empty, glad I am left alone aside for my shaky breathing and despondent thoughts.

* * *

I had probably stood under the scalding stream of water in the huge metal shower for almost an hour before the water began running tepid. Guilt runs rampant throughout my mind as I step out and wrap a towel around me, watching the remaining water swirl around the drain. The water I had just wasted scrubbing the layers and layers of makeup the prep team had piled on to make me look presentable could have supplied my entire working ranch, or any ranch in 10 for that matter, for more than a month. The precious liquid is so scarce and so necessary for life that it is rationed out to us, but only after we had supplied our cattle with enough of it. I shudder as I remember a boy that was only a few years younger than me, a boy from one of the poorer families in my district that worked under the large ranches like the ones Weston's father owned, had been whipped for sneaking a bit of the cattle's water in the trough. The entirety of the district had been called before the Justice Building to watch the public punishment; District 10 is so rural and scarcely populated that it took a great deal of effort for everybody to gather round, but gather round they did. I could only imagine how parched he must have been to risk such a humilating, painful consequence. My tongue immediately feels dry and my throat constricted; I walk over to the glass of water that stood on my nightstand and down it in a blink, not taking the cool liquid for granted.

Glancing around at the plush room that I had been assigned, eager to get my mind off of memories of my home, I find my blotchy self in a mirror a few feet from my bed. Happy to be back to the dry-skinned, farmer's-tanned, wild-haired girl that I am, I curl up on the giant bed after pulling on black pants and knit cardigan. I hear Marcy calling me to supper, and finally, I am persuaded by my growling stomach to rise, pulling on my worn boots that Quincy had snuck in for me, and shutting the door to my room behind me as I walk out.

Weston and Bonnie are laughing about something as I make my way over to the dining room. Quincy is shoveling an impressive amount of food into his mouth, and Marcy, I assume, had already retired to her bed. They all sit around a large, round table, so full of food that I wonder it is a miracle the legs underneath it hold it all up so steadily. The bright, decorative state of the room surprisingly does nothing to surpress my appetite as it had before; I eagerly sit down next to Quincy and reach for a big, expensive piece of beef. Weston grins at me. The meat from our cattle is forbidden to citizens of District 10, even to wealthy land-owners such as the Hughes'. We both had piled our plates full of the stuff, eating as with such fervor you would think we hadn't just inhaled a bag full of dried beef an hour ago.

"So," I hear Quincy say. "You kids got any plans for training tomorrow?"

I glance over at Weston, dropping my fork before I can take a big bite of steak, and both of us exchange frightened looks. We had forgotten for almost a whole hour that tomorrow is training, caught up in the glamour of the Capitol and all of their sweet, sweet luxuries. The fact that early tomorrow morning we will be meeting our fellow tributes face to face, throwing around weapons, had completely slipped our minds.

"Surivival skills first thing in the morning," I state the plan that I had just pulled out of thin air, my eyes not leaving my full plate. I'm almost positive Quincy can hear the question in my voice. "Hand-to-hand and weapons after lunch."

He doesn't. He's nodding in approval, and glances over at Bonnie, who's too busy picking something out of her teeth with her fingernail. I'm glad Marcy had gone to sleep so early; she would be as stiff as a board around Bonnie's poor table manners. I can't help but admit I'm happy it's only District 10 dining at the table tonight.

"Well, looks like you kids know what you're doin'," Bonnie says. "And I'm as full as a tick. I'm gonna hit the hay." She rises, and pats Quincy's shoulder, as if to say '_you should too'._

Quincy stays put though, and leans forward to continue talking.

"Listen, kids, don't reach for anything you're already really good at," he warns. "Don't go off showin' around. This ain't the Governor's ball. Just learn what you can and get on the hell outta there."

He pauses, waiting for us to say something in reply; I don't know what he expects us to say. A cry of protest? An angry rebuttal? We are too smart and too tired to question our newly doting mentor.

Quincy nods, finished with his advice, and continues eating. Weston excuses himself, and soon after, I finish my last steak and excuse myself. I stand, and before I can push in my chair, I hear Quincy speak.

"I saw you talkin' to Finnick."

I freeze.

"I know it ain't my place, Willa," he continues. "But don't make the man hate himself more than he already does."

We both stare at each other in silence for a long while, before I curtly tuck the seat under the table and start to walk away.

"You're right," I say quietly. "It isn't your place."

* * *

I am awoken in the midst of the night, finding myself stirring into conciousness. After laying in bed for another half hour afterwards, it becomes apparent the sleep is not going to find me again. My stomach is churning in anticipation of our first day of training, fearing confrontation with the boy from 2, or really, any of the Careers.

Shaking myself out of it, I finally decide to rise from my bed. I realize that the stuffy, artificial air that was circulating throughout the apartment was what was keeping me from my slumber. I yearn for the fresh, dry oxygen of my home, aching for the brisk air of the southwestern sunrises in the rocky mountains. My heart hurts at the remembrance of my home. My thoughts travel back to Lorelai, August, my father.

Walking over the self-service keypad installed into the wall, I choose a glass of warm milk. It appears before me. I snatch it up eagerly, the soft aroma of the drink comforting me to no end. When I had been much, much younger, my father would often spare a little milk before bed, warming it up on the stove for me. It had helped me sleep through those hard nights after Cass's death.

I down about four tall glasses of the stuff before I call up a fifth and grab it on my way out the bedroom door. Walking around the dark, quiet apartment, I'm searching for a window to open, anything to let in some fresh air. I find nothing except for secure locks and metal screens. They really want us to stay put, don't they?

I'm on the edge of hysterical, my chest feeling constricted by the confines of the claustrophobic apartment, before I find my way to the elevator. I'm surprised as it opens before me as I press the call button; I had expected the elevator to be off limits to tributes roaming the halls. I walk in and push the very top button, hoping I'll find my way to the roof, or at the very least, some open windows. The elevator dings once it reaches its destination, and the doors open, revealing a wide, open outside space, and I feel a breeze skirt along my forehead. A smile spreads across my face. I am on the roof of the Training Center.

Cautiously, I make my way along the eastern most edge of the perimeter, breathing the cold, night air. I feel as though I'm simply waiting for a Peacekeeper to burst through the bushes in the garden a few hundred feet away from me, snatching me up, and escorting me downstairs. However, after about five minutes of tensely looking around the roof, I decide no one is coming.

I close my eyes and lean forwards against the edge, relief flooding me. Instantly feeling about a million times better, I slide down the side of the stone perimeter and sit down, letting my thoughts wander. Quincy's confrontation seems to be the only thing that comes to mind.

_"Don't make the man hate himself more than he already does."_

I am instantly filled with a burning anger, rage filling my chest and traveling to my throat in the form of a frustrated yell. Who was Quincy to tell me what I should feel towards Finnick? Who was Quincy telling me I should pity him? Why should I? Am I supposed to pity this man because he feels guilty about murdering my sister? He should. I want him to hate himself. I want him to hate himself as much as I hated myself whenever I thought about Cass's death, wishing I had been the one in the arena to die, wishing I could have taken her place.

For a second, though, my anger falters; I remember that I, too, am a tribute, and I, too, will have to kill to return from the arena alive. My blame for Cass's death slowly shifts from Finnick to the Capitol; the Capitol for broadcasting and putting together these Games every year. I am left sister-less and hating a man I had never met, and Finnick is left hating himself for doing what he had been driven to do with the promise of survival.

I wonder whether or not I will kill to reign victorious; I wonder whether or not I will bend under the hands of the Capitol and take the life of an innocent child before their bloodthirsty eyes. I am horrified by the hypothetical murdering. Will I, myself, end up taking away someone's brother, sister, friend? Will I end up like Finnick Odair, haunted by the children I kill in the arena, never really leaving the Games?

I'm glad, for a moment, that Cass hadn't been the one to raise her axe and kill Finnick. I'm glad she hadn't been the one to loathe who had she become nearly a decade later.

* * *

Once the sun had started peeking out from under the horizion, I came back down the elevator and to our floor. My lack of sleep is finally starting to sway me as I crash onto my bed, and am only allowed a few hours before Marcy is knocking at my door and presenting me with clothes that have a large, obnoxious '10' stitched over the left breast.

"How are you feeling?" Marcy asks, handing me some training boots.

"Fine," I say. Realizing she's not going to get much else out of me, she nods curtly. "Breakfast in fifteen minutes." After that, she leaves me in privacy to change into my clothes.

I'm immediately grateful the training shirt is nearly sleeveless, showing off the one thing I have worth to show off. The opening of the sleeve grips my muscled shoulder tightly and I smile at myself in the mirror, no longer disheartened by my problematic skin, which seems to be getting drier and drier every day. I was used to the heat of District 10; now, in the colder air of the Capitol, my skin is lashing out at me angrily for the sudden change of location.

Remembering the bottles of lotion that stood on a tray in the bathroom, I grab the first one I see and smother my face in it. It reasonably improves, along with my mood, and after braiding my hair back into a neat plait, I almost skip to the table to join Weston and my mentors for a morning meal.

"Woah, there, darlin'," Quincy says. "Looks like you won't be needin' a good mornin' from me."

I sit down next to Weston, and eagerly grab at the food around me.

"I'm just really excited to start training," I say with a shrug.

"Well, I'd tone it down, missy," Bonnie says, although she's grinning at the sight of my smile. "'Cause right now, you're lookin' as tough as this plate of butter over here." She points with her knife at the melted, pooling butter.

"I think I'm pretty tough," I huff, stabbing a piece of ham with my knife, attempting a menacing look.

Quincy laughs loudly.

"You cheered me up, partner," says Quincy. "I like a good joke."

* * *

It seems as though our good spirits have faded as Weston and I climb into the elevator after a quick good luck from our mentors, the laughter from breakfast evaporating as we descend, replaced by tense nerves.

"Are you nervous?" Weston looks over at me, his voice quiet.

"Yeah," I admit. No point in smudging the truth with my district partner. "Yeah, I am."

He nods, glad that I had spoken honestly. Before he can reply, though, the elevator door opens and reveals a long, gray corridor. We step out wearily, confused.

"Oh!" I say, slapping my forehead with my palm. The words 'Training Room' had been spelled out in large, silver letters above two, large double doors. How could we have missed that? "Over there."

We laugh at our stupidity, thankful for the lightened mood, walking towards the heavy doors.

"Bonnie would have probably told us we wouldn't know our ass from a hole in the ground," I snort, imitating her western drawl, and Weston chuckles whole-heartedly.

"Or she would have told us we're about as useful as a trap-door on a canoe," Weston adds, quoting what Bonnie had told me when I handed her a map on the train over to the Capitol when she had asked where we were.

We both burst out laughing from teasing our mentor, just as we open the doors to the training room, and silence falls all around us. Stony, solemn-eyed tributes who are afraid for their life are littered all across the room, shakily holding weapons, rope, or flint. And here we are, Weston Hughes and Willa Whitlock from District 10, laughing up a storm like we're going to a damn banquet. The Careers, spread over the numerous weapons stations around the room, are staring at us coldly, especially the boy from 2.

I grab West's hand with surprising boldness, and say, "Come on, Hughes. We got some fires to build."

* * *

I let out a cry of frustration at the edible plants station as I choose the poisonous berries for the ninth time in a row. I would have been dead nine times through now if I had been in the arena. The expert at this station is patient with me, though, and tries to explain the trivial differences between the two. Weston had already moved on to camoflague, the last survival skill, and should be moving on to weaponary any minute now. I'm undeniably envious.

"Listen," I say, pleading with the berries expert. "I'm from 10. The closest thing we have to edible vegetation is when one of our Peacekeepers drop their imported fruit."

The trainer sighs, exasperated, not sure how to deal with my apparent inept ability to distinguish what is edible from what will kill me.

"Don't worry," I hear someone behind me speak, the cockiness in their voice painfully abundant. "You'll be dead long before you need to gather any food in the arena." It is the boy from 2, smirking at me and shaking his head at my failed attempts as he walks past me and to the weaponary.

Before I can bite my lip to shut myself up, I blurt out, "What do you do when you're not pretending to be tough?"

The boy from 2 doesn't even stop to process my pathetic insult, and instead, lets out a low, condescending chuckle before grabbing a sword a few hundred feet away from me, slicing through the dummy with sickening percision.

Ignoring what Quincy had said about showing off, my stupidity fed by the burning rage inside of my chest, I excuse myself from the edible plants station and march over to the throwing knives. I spend a while running my fingers over their cool, metal edges; they are nothing like the crude blades we had back in 10. I choose a couple of the smaller ones, and start throwing them at the moving dummies. I hit each one at least once, although most of them are only hit in the shoulder or arm, there are a couple that hit square in the chest. Pleased with myself, and gladly noticing I have the blonde Career boy's attention, I move on to the axes next.

These, too, are with stark contrast to the wooden hatchets we have laying around our ranch. These are sleek and silver, as well as much lighter. I immediately begin to doubt my skills. I had never been really very good with axes, not like I am throwing knives or the lasso. I glance up at the Gamemakers at the other side of the large room, surveilling the tributes. Swallowing nervously, I pick up the axe; there's no turning back now. I throw it, as hard as I can, praying it at least hits the dummy at all.

It hardly scrapes the side before it clamors on the ground pathetically.

I hear cruel laughter from the swords station. The boys from 1 and 2 had stopped swinging their metal swords to make fun of my lack of experience with the axes. Anger bubbles up, threatening to boil over, and I walk over to the rope station calmly. Before the trainer there can stop me, and before I realize what I'm doing, I grab the longest rope available and fashion a lasso out of the stuff.

2 is raising his sword up and behind his head, ready to come down on the dummy once more. I swing the rope above me a few times and throw it.

It wraps around the weapon easily, and I tighten the slack, yanking it out of his hands. He stumbles back, and is visibly confused by the turn of events. I nearly starting shaking in fear when he and I both realize what I had just done, his face twisting with rage as he sees me standing with the lasso in my hands, starting to make his way over to me.

The boy from 1 calls out to him.

"She's not worth it, Cato," he says.

I let out a breath of relief as he turns around after glaring at me for a while, and picks up his sword once more. He slices through a few dummies with disturbing ease.

His icy eyes come into contact with mine, and I can almost hear what he is thinking.

_You're next._

* * *

**Thanks for reading and thanks for all of the wonderful reviews! I would especially like to thank Keller, daisherz365, unadulteratedreader, and the good wolf for your especially uplifting words.**

**Keep the reviews, coming guys! **

**_fortes fortuna iuvat_**


	5. De Fumo in Flammam

**Chapter Four  
Part One  
De Fumo in Flammam  
**_(Out of the smoke, and into the fire)_**  
**

* * *

I had escaped to the roof at every available moment, relishing in the small freedom and releasing the pressures of being a tribute, if only for a few hours. Every night I would awaken through its midst, finding myself staring out into the darkness of my room, recounting the day's events over and over, until, finally, I would leave for the elevator, giving in to the temptation of the wide, open space.

It didn't take Quincy very long to figure out where I had been going in the small hours of the morning. I heard the spurs on his boots approaching on the night before the third and final day of training, and his rough voice followed soon after.

"Can't sleep?"

"No," I say. "Haven't really slept in a while."

He nods slowly and genially, staring out into the brilliant evening lights of the city that dwarfed our own humble, wooden town. It was strange, how bright and illuminated the Capitol was, even at this hour. The moon seemed to be almost outshone by the yellow, incandescent glow of the sleek buildings. Back home in 10, electricity was a luxury only granted to the wealthiest folks, like Weston's family; my father and I spent nearly all of our time outside during the day, soaking up every last drop of the golden sun until the sky is bruised purple and black and we retreat back into our home, alone in the darkness until the blazing western sun is hot and high once more.

"You know," Quincy starts. "I really think you got a hell of a chance gettin' out of that arena. And I ain't just sayin' that 'cause I'm your mentor."

His words are meant to comfort me, to reassure and console me, words to remember when I cannot find sleep because nightmares of my death at the hands of another tribute haunt me, or, perhaps, words to remember when that time actually comes. Instead, they have the opposite effect; a dreaded, harrowing feeling creeps up and settles in my chest. The only thing that I can think about is how my victory would inevitably mean the death of twenty-three innocent children, would be directly linked with twenty-three families fractured beyond repair like mine had been nine years before.

Why did I deserve to win? Why did I deserve to return home with a healthy, beating heart when that means twenty-three white coffins return to twenty-three shattered homes? When that meant that I would never forget the faces of those who had died so I can see District 10 once more – the tiny girl from 11 with dark skin and frightened eyes; the small boy from 4 with wild hair that rivals my own; the girl from 12, leaving behind a mourning sister, broken beyond comprehension like I had been nearly a decade ago; even the arrogant boy from 2, Cato, whose entire life revolved around the Games. Neither one deserved a bloody death more than the other. So why me? Why should I be the one granted with a pass out of the arena? And then, suddenly and unsettlingly, a chilling thought strikes me.

_No one does._

I study the man standing next to me, my refuted mentor, who has a pained expression over his scarred, rugged face. Quincy is classic District 10, with deep, somber brown eyes and sun-lightened hair peppered with gold. Although he is easily not much older than twenty-five, his unshaven, worn physiognomy is aged beyond his years, and reveals he is much more than a lowly farmer. And all I can think about it why he's wide-awake in the middle of the night with a distressed look, unable to sleep and standing here next to me, even though he's not the one going into the arena to face his death in less than a week.

_No one leaves._

All I can think about is Finnick Odair's face when he saw me as Cass Whitlock's sister, a ghost of his gruesome past, how broken he had seemed when I stared his green eyes down. How I had heard Bonnie's screams in the middle of the night from the room over, tossing and turning, running away from imaginary demons. What would cause someone so bright and mirthful like Bonnie to produce such a blood-curdling, awful sound; I would never want to know. All I can think about is how bent Quincy is on making sure I'm the one who exits that arena with my life intact, making sure that more blood isn't on his hands, and the way the parents of the tributes look at their mentors, the way they look at their last glimpse of hope with pleading eyes. A victor of the games never leaves the arena, never sleeps a full night without survivor's guilt, never is allowed a day off from the crooked Games. It hadn't mattered whether you are from 2 or 12, it hadn't mattered whether you had been trained your entire life with a full belly, prepared, or simply lived day to day scraping up enough food, you enter and exit the arena armed with more than simply a victory – the Capitol will make sure of that.

_No one wins._

"It's not fair," I think aloud, quietly and under my breath. For a moment, I had forgotten my mentor had ever been standing next to me until I hear him speak up.

"Life ain't fair," Quincy's voice is hardly audible at first. After a while, he starts again, this time louder and more sure. "Some cattle grow strong, while others are picked off by wolves. Some people are born rich enough and dumb enough to enjoy their lives. Ain't nothin' fair. Life ain't fair."

He stops once more, blinks a few times and looks down at his boots, kicking the edge of the roof, before adding in his final words.

"You and I know that better than anyone."

* * *

By the time the last day of training with the other tributes had rolled around, I am completely exhausted; beat down by my lack of sleep and hours of obstacle courses, weaponry, and avoiding confrontations with the Careers. They haven't been exactly fond of me since the stunt I had pulled with my lasso and the boy from 2, Cato. From the look they're giving Weston and me as we line up for the last course before lunch, I can tell they'll enjoy gutting us like fish in the arena. I bet they're already claiming who kills whom.

"Don't let them see you fall," Weston leans down and whispers in my ear, slapping his hand on my back softly as the trainer beckons for me to begin my run-through. I nod at him, thankful for the forward outlook of my district partner to keep me motivated.

I step towards the obstacle course and glance around; it never fails to surprise me how much effort the Gamemakers go to train us for the Games, building giant, complicated courses like this to guarantee a good show. The trainer there, a woman, is explaining what I need to do. Essentially, it's jumping, running, climbing, and trying not to fall. She wishes me luck, a kind smile grazing her lips.

"Here goes nothing," I say under my breath, and throw a quick wink to my district partner before beginning to run into the first obstacle.

Feeling the eyes of the other tributes as I push my way through, I keep Weston's words in mind. I won't let them see me struggle, won't let them pinpoint me as a weakling. The course is more difficult than I had imagined; halfway through, I'm huffing and puffing. I scale the final hill, resisting to the urge to simply roll down it, before I'm met with a giant net, and my heart drops at the sight.

_Don't let them see you fall._

My first grasp on the ropes is tight, and I grit my teeth with exertion as I force my weight up. I manage to clamber through most of it without so much as a stumble, until the net begins to dip from its previously vertical state, and is now nearly completely horizontal. All of a sudden, the knots flip, and I'm entirely upside down, sweat dripping off of me. I feel the burning of the ropes digging into my calloused, worn palms, my hands much too small to fully grip the net for so long, too weak to hold the entirety of my body mass.

And then, before I can even grasp what is happening, my hands slip, and I'm plummeting to the ground.

The wind is knocked out of me fully as my back collides with the hard mat; I feel my shoulder pop and I wince audibly, squeezing my eyes shut in pain. My head is ringing as I try to pick myself up. I fail miserably at steadying myself enough to rise, and a trainer runs over to help me, but I push her aside and attempt it again. This time, I am successful; although my walk is wavering, I'm standing, and find my place back in line with the other tributes with my head held high. A few of them, mostly the Careers, have amused smirks on their faces from the sight of a weak contender, but most give me pitiful looks. Weston shoots me an apologetic glance before starting his turn. I walk to the end of the line, where the boy from 2 had just finished his run, and watch as my district partner glides along the obstacles

"I see you're going to follow in the footsteps of your sister, huh?" Cato's numbingly cold voice chills me to the bone. I'm nearly positive I shudder.

Gasps from all the other districts, including the other Careers, surround me. Even _they're _surprised at the boy's blatant cruelty.

"Excuse me?" I say, angry, but my voice is faltering, the effect of his words seeping in. "Who do you think you are?"

A mirthless smile tugs at his thin lips.

"I've ever been less intimidated in my life," he says, and, deciding he's finished picking on the mediocre tribute from 10, he starts to walk away from me and towards the weaponry.

Then, blind rage consumes me to no end as it feeds the stupidity numbing my common sense, and I throw everything I've been told about confrontations with the other tributes out the window as I shove him, pushing on his back as hard as I can. He stumbles forward from the unexpected act of aggression, and more gasps from the others proceed.

Almost immediately, he turns around, completely livid, breathing much too heavy for someone so well trained. His hands ball up into fists, and his frigid, icy eyes bore into me, trying to decide whether or not to ring me like a towel for all to see.

I'm not done, though. He's awoken something inside of me; I can feel it stirring fiercely as it ignites in the pit of my stomach, burning and blazing like the western sun.

"You as slow as you look, friend?" I push him one more time, my small hands meet his hard muscle, but this time, he's expecting it, and hardly moves an inch. "Come on! I ain't got all day!"

Cato has had enough. I can tell the only thing he's thinking about right now is how lovely I would look torn apart and strewn in pieces on the ground. It's blatant that he's wondering which would be the most satisfying way to kill me as his nettled eyes fix onto mine. I haven't, in my entire seventeen years of living, seen anyone look this thoroughly infuriated. Fear begins to replace the insistent resent burning in my gut as he raises a hard fist and I shut my eyes tightly, bracing myself for the impact.

It never comes.

The head trainer, a hardened-middle aged man with graying hair but a ripped physique, is standing in between the two indignant tributes. He looks like he's about to murder us both before any of the others can even lay a hand on us in the arena. Hotly and assertively pointing to the direction of the exit doors, he speaks in a deadly voice that reminds me of the warning hiss of a desert rattler.

"You two. Now."

* * *

After a long, painful lecture from the head trainer about fighting with tributes before the Games that leaves my ears ringing, Cato and I are left alone in the cafeteria to have our lunch in silence. The others have already eaten and begun their last hours of training. I can't tell whether we're more resentful at each other, the fact we wasted some of our precious training time, or that we had to sit through someone yelling at us for about half an hour like we were some small children who had drank more than their fair share of water, instead of warriors sent to fight to our deaths.

He's stabbing the food so indignantly, I'm nearly positive Cato is imagining the piece of steak is my face. Nervously, I glance at the clock above. We have another five minutes alone in the cold cafeteria before we're reunited with the others in the training room. I never thought I would miss Weston's warm company as much as I do now. Sighing loudly, I decide I might as well make some conversation with the boy who is going to be bent on ending my life in the next few days.

"So," I say, tapping my finger anxiously against the metal tray. He doesn't even glance up at me, and continues to shove food in his mouth. I clear my throat, and try again. "So, you're from 2?"

_Oh, God..._

He looks up from his plate and to me, his rigid face incredulous as to how I could be so blatantly stupid. A giant, bright red two is stitched onto his shirt. The boy doesn't bother to reply, and instead, picks up his glass of water.

I realize that I have absolutely nothing in common with the brute who sits in front of me; I realize that I do not understand the Careers in the slightest. They dedicate theirs lives in an academy, wasting away fighting and training, and for what? Nothing can prepare them for actually taking the life of a fellow youth. Those who prevail in the Games don't fully leave, forever tied to the bleak life of a victor, and those who perish in the arena, die having never really lived. I ponder what possesses them to voluntarily lead such a double-crossed life, until I find the strength to ask the boy another question.

"Why did you volunteer?"

Cato sets his cup down loudly, the sound echoing against the empty walls, some of the liquid sloshing and spilling over the sides onto the table with the force.

"Don't ask stupid questions," he barks at me.

"Come on," I say. "Was it for honor, fame, money? All three?"

He sits still for what seems to be forever, staring at the puddle of water next to his plate as if it might hold the answer to my question. For a moment, I wonder whether or not the Careers are as smart and strong as the facade they put on as Cato can't think of a single reason why he voluntarily offered himself up for the Games. Perhaps, he really is that foolishly confident that he will be the one to leave the arena; my suspicions are confirmed as he speaks.

"Because I was ready. Because I'll win."

"But _why?"_

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Something flashes in eyes as he tries to decide whether or not to tell me, but it dissapears in a fleeting moment. I think it is something of lament, but before I can speak, he picks up his tray in a huff, and chucks it at the trash can before stomping out, his boots pounding against the floor so hard I'm surprised the earth beneath him hasn't split. His coarse voice is the last thing I hear as the door slams shut.

"I _said _don't ask stupid questions."

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, bulls aren't angered by the bright red hue of the sheets the cowboys wave teasingly in front of the creatures. It's the sudden movement and the sheer fact that the stupid rodeo clown would even dare tease such an aggressive animal. I remember going to a rodeo once, held in celebration in honor of Quincy's victory, where I shuddered in fear at the huffing beast with such burning anger in his eyes that was unmatched by anything I had ever seen in my life. Until now.

Quincy had been screaming at me, shaking his fist, throwing things, and threatening me with violence for what seems like hours, until Bonnie, who had been watching silently from the sofa this entire time, finally rests her hand on his shoulder. He is breathing hard through his nose, still impossibly outraged and boiling inside, reminding me of the bulls I had feared so much back home. Quincy is infuriated, and with good reason; I had ruined my chances of making it home, probably for both West and me. I was going to be another white coffin sent home, another death on Quincy's conscience. I'm sure he saw me as a second chance to get it right with Cass, a second chance at getting her home safe and sound. And I had thrown it all out with one stupid, rash decision.

"You and Weston should go ahead and get washed up," Bonnie tells me, a painfully disappointed look on her face. "Your private training session with the Gamemakers starts soon."

Nodding, grateful for her interference, Weston and I rise from our spot on the couches, and make our way to our rooms.

"I'm sorry," I hear Weston say. Sorry for what? Sorry that I'm much too impulsive, sorry that I won't make it home alive, following in the footsteps of my sister, just like what Cato had said that drove me over the edge? "I don't blame you for attacking him. I should have stepped in when he said that, I should have been there."

"You were on the course, West," I remind him. "You didn't even know."

"Yeah, but still," he shrugs. "We should have been in it together. Us underdogs gotta stick together." He says the last part with a sheepish smile, and I would have snorted at the ridiculousness of the statement in any other situation. Weston Hughes, who probably lives in a room bigger than my entire ranch, who never had to feel the burning itch of a thirsty throat when the water supply got thing, who never had to watch the scalding sun burn your father's skin as he worked to the point of collapse to ensure you wouldn't have to risk your life with the tesserae, an underdog? But right now, in the crooked world of the Capitol's game, he was. He was just as untrained and unfit as I am, just as unprepared to enter the arena in two days. Weston admits it so easily and so freely in an attempt to comfort me that I almost hate myself for judging him before.

"Yeah, I guess we do."

I grin widely at him as we stand outside our bedrooms, wondering how I got so lucky with such an incredible district partner. As I reach my palm out to him, an old saying from the ancient days of District 10 comes to mind; an old saying from when my home was simply the wild west, where cowboys roamed the prairies with nothing but a revolver and a trusted steed, where the laws were as much as a rarity as cold water in those parched lands, where the morals of the men were so crooked they could swallow nails and spit out corkscrews. My father had told me the adventures of the outlaws on the western frontier so many times, they are engraved in my mind; they are stories I was sure to pass on to my own children, stories from when man was as free as the wind that blew through the dry, amber grass of the desert.

"Outlaws to the end?" I ask him, quietly but surely.

He smiles at me, and takes my hand.

"Outlaws to the end."

* * *

The waiting room is cold and biting, the chill of the metal bench sending goosebumps through my skin. I so much hated this artificially frosty air, and I find myself sitting back against the wall and shutting my eyes, trying to remember what the sweet heat of 10 felt like. I'm aching to be home again, aching to be within the safe perimeter of my ranch, aching for when I was simply a child growing up in 10, not some gladiator sent to fight my ancestor's battles. I wonder what Cass had felt like, going in to the private training session; all I knew was that I felt like I was willingly going into one of the bear caves we have around the steep, rocky hills of 10.

Suddenly, an old memory of my sister rises out of some dusty part of my brain, and I find myself replaying it in my head.

I couldn't have been older than seven; Cass was probably around sixteen, the year before she was Reaped. She picked me up from school one day with a picnic basket, hauled me up on August, and we trotted along for a while. I remember resting my head against he back, holding her tightly, endlessly comforted by her presence. I remember being an irritating little girl with an infinite supply of curious questions, but Cass answered each one through the duration of the long ride with kind patience.

"Do you believe in God?" I had asked her softly.

"No," she replied quickly and surely. "I don't. Faith is a luxury I'm afraid I can't afford, sweetheart."

"Oh," I said. "Well, neither do I. I don't understand how he can be such a nice man and all if he lets bad things happen. Why do people believe in Him, Cass?"

She let out a long sigh before she answered my question.

"Well, Willa," she began slowly. "All folks have to look for answers somewhere. Some in big ol' books, others in big ol' bottles of whiskey."

"Whiskey?" I asked her. "Like what Mr. Hudspeth drinks?"

I remember she stiffened slightly at the sound of the 62nd Hunger Games victor's name. When I was small, my father would sometimes take me into town with him to pick up feed for our cows, and I would often see Quincy, our beloved champion that District 10 held with such great pride, intoxicated in a saloon, drinking away his life at only nineteen, the strong liquor he favored the same color as his soft eyes.

"Well, yes, I suppose," she said briskly. "So it would seem."

Cass continued to answer my pestering inquiries, until, finally, we reached our destination. It is a beautiful spot that we visited annually; it is a small lake, on the edge of the perimeter of 10, much farther than we're supposed to go, but it is so wonderful and so different than the rest of the dry district, that we were willing to risk it.

"Cass," I had said. "Why do we go out here every year?"

"It's your momma's birthday, little girl," she replied, laying out a thin blanket in the shade of a lonesome tree, right in front of the shallow water. The sky had been colored in breathtaking hues at this time of day, streaks of orange and red throughout, the bright sun shook like a fist as it had began its descent, and tweeting birds flirted with the whistling, warm breeze.

"Oh," I said quietly. "How come Pa isn't with us?"

Cass's eyes hardened.

"Some people like to celebrate in different ways, Will," she said soberly. "Pa just likes to be alone 'round this time."

I nodded, pretending like I understood.

We probably sat there for hours, chattering away, sipping on wet glasses of sweet tea, chewing on salted pork and warm bread, until our laughter is interrupted by a low, uneasy whinny from August. Cass stands up slowly, and steps in front of me instinctively.

And then we heard it.

A low, roaring, groaning, growl. The sound of an anxious bear. I remember nearly shaking with fear as I saw the brown fur approaching closer and closer, getting larger and larger, until it stood fifteen feet from us. I remember my eyes widening as I see two cubs rolling around in a dry bush behind their mother.

Cass stood her ground in front of my trembling body. She speaks up, slowly.

"I see you, too, have a family, friend," Cass began with a steady, low tone, her voice like warm milk. "And so that we both may see our families again, I suggest we part ways amicably."

The bear stood still, unwavering, breathing heavily. I was sure it was going to charge at any minute and eat us both up.

"Now," Cass started again. "I'd hate to spoil such a beautiful evening on such beautiful land with further unpleasantries."

I felt the creature gaze directly into my eyes for a long time, who was sitting behind Cass this entire time, trembling with fear and peeking through her legs carefully. Slowly, the bear had glanced back up at Cass, boring its brown eyes at her. My sister had stood strong and still, hands at her sides calmly. I swear, to this day, I saw the bear had nod at Cass, before it turned around, and walked away, back from where it came.

We packed up quickly once it was out of our sight, hopping on August in a jiffy, and speeding away at full speed.

"If you ever find yourself in a hole, Willa," she told me on the way back. "First thing you gotta do is quit diggin'."

I had sighed once more, then, wishing I could understand what on earth she had been talking about.

"You do so love to talk in riddles, Cass," I said quietly, pressing my tired face against her back. "I wish I could be as smart and brave and old as you."

Cass laughed bitterly.

"Don't be so eager to grow up, little girl," she said. "It ain't as much fun as it looks."

Suddenly, I'm out of District 10 and back in a frigid, metal room as a warm hand shakes my shoulder, and I let out a heavy breath.

"We're almost up," West tells me. After a little while, he speaks up again. "Are you nervous?"

Now, I understand the meaning of Cass's words. If you're met with a bear, don't go on attacking it or provoking it or even running away. Stand still for a little while, quit diggin'. Right now, this bear is the group of Gamemakers awaiting a wonderful performance.

"Don't worry, West," I say, patting his hand softly. "You'll do fine. Just throw everything you can."

He glances over at me, and I can tell my words don't do much to comfort him. Instead, he looks worse than before I had spoken up. I hear a robotic voice call my name.

"Willa Whitlock."

I suck in my breath, and I feel my district partner's hand on my shoulder once more. He nods his head; his eyes hard and impermissible, much like Quincy's are most of the time, daring me to do above my best. Unspoken words are exchanged between the two District 10 tributes, before my name is called once more, and I find myself walking through those heavy double doors, not entirely sure I'll make it out in one piece.

The Gamemakers are bored now, I can tell the minute I walk in; they're watching this from their little glass stage for about the twentieth time now. Weapons and various items such as rope and kindle are strung around the room, available for my usage. There's a line of dummies about thirty feet away.

"Willa Whitlock," I speak as softly as Cass, voice like warm milk. "District 10."

I snatch up a long piece of rope and tie a lasso; with steady hands, I swing it above me, and then, resisting the urge to shut my eyes, I throw it, and it lands around the neck of middle dummy with near perfect precision. I stand back for a split second, pleased with the results, before I tighten the slack and the dummy's neck snaps. A small, relieved smile spreads across my face as I continue to throw the lasso another time, and it lands with the same perfection around a blade similar to the one Cato used resting in the weaponry case, clamoring on the ground.

Rope, however, isn't enough to earn me a solid number. I look around until my eyes fall upon the knives, and I grab a few, standing back to throw them. Each at least hits the dummy somewhere it would hurt; most hit them in the chest or the neck. I'm giddy with pleasant surprise with how masterfully I am propelling these knives at the desired targets.

I glance up at the Gamemakers. They haven't dismissed me yet. Instead, they continue to watch me, eager for more from the girl whose sister had perished in the Games nine years before. I grit my teeth angrily, and walk over for the axes that lay on a metal table, reaching my last resort. I had failed miserably the first time I picked these bastards up, why do I think this will be any different? Throwing caution to the wind, I release the hatchet.

It makes a satisfying sound as it slices through the faux flesh of the dummy, straight through the shoulder. I let out a shaky breath.

"Thank you, Miss Whitlock," I hear the head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane, dismiss me. "You may leave."

I nod my head towards the group before making my exit, but I'm stopped by Seneca Crane's sharp voice once more.

"Just one question," he says. "Do you think you're going to be able to take down that boy from 2 in the arena?"

I rack my brain, searching for a clever answer, a mean answer, _something. _This wasn't supposed to happen. I was just supposed to go and show them what I can do and leave. They must want to know what is going on in the mind of a girl my stature who attacks a boy of Cato's size. And then, I remember what Quincy and Bonnie are painting me as – a careless cowgirl who lives without doubts.

"Well, sir," I begin. "As it turns out, it's either me or him."

I manage to spread a slow, wicked as I utter my finishing statement.

"And, hell, way I see it, might as well be him."

* * *

I awaken to Bonnie hitting my shoulder hard, and Quincy yelling at me to wake up in the back. A groan escapes from my mouth as I come to, realizing I'm on the leather sofa in the television room of our floor. My head hurts and my mouth feels dry. I now remember I had crashed on the couch in pure exhaustion after the private training session.

"Wake up, idiot," Quincy says, plopping down next to me, rubbing the hair on my head. "You've been nappin' for hours. They're broadcastin' the scores already, kid."

Turning to the television, I see Claudius and Caesar sitting behind a table and in front of a black screen that shows the face of the boy from 1, Marvel, and almost immediately after, a nine appears next to him. His district partner, Glimmer earns an eight, and Cato and his district partner each a ten.

As the commentators rattle off the rest of the numbers, fear sinks in. If someone like the strong boy from 5 only earned a six, what will I get? A five? Maybe even a four? I had left the training room with such elation, sure that I have done an excellent job. Now, that joy is as fleeting as the tributes left until Weston and myself.

We sit in anticipation, waiting for our turn. I hadn't gotten the chance to discuss what I had done and said in the training room in front of the Gamemakers with Quincy or Bonnie, and now I'm worried that I made an utter fool of myself. I should have replied with something deadly and biting, maybe even just scoff and walk out. Quincy frowns at me as he notices my hands trembling.

Finally, after the girl from 9 gets a seven, it's our turn. Weston's face is as white as a sheet as they show his picture.

"Weston Hughes, from District 10, received an eight."

Bonnie lets out a gleeful yelp, and smacks Weston on the back, congratulating him. Quincy smiles at the boy and tells him he did good.

_"_Willa Whitlock, from District 10, received a ten."

The room is silent for a moment, and then, joyous laughter erupts. Quincy lets out a whoop of joy, picks me up and spins me around, hugging me tightly. When he sets me down, he plants a huge kiss on the top of my head, grinning from ear to ear. Hope is back in his brown eyes, sparkling as brightly as the Capitol lights. There's a chance I might make it home now. Weston and I did it; we made it through. Sponsors will roll in much easier for Bonnie and Quincy.

"What the hell did you two do in there?" Quincy exclaims. "No, wait, I don't care! Hot damn, Willa, you and West are the finest tributes Bonnie and I have yet to come across."

I look to my district partner, and see he has the same gleeful expression as the rest of the group.

"Well, look at you," Bonnie says with a proud smile on her face. "You two are grinnin' like a possum eating a sweet potato. Let's celebrate! 'Cause right now I'm as sober as a preacher on a Sunday mornin'!"

* * *

Once more, I find that sleep eludes me in the middle of the night, and I'm up on the cold rooftop again. This time, however, I am not awake because of ill feelings that creep up and settle quietly and uncomfortably in my gut, but instead, it is the leftover giddiness of our small after-party. I find that I'm still smiling, even as I clamber into the elevator and ascend to the roof.

Quincy is already there, sitting on the solid edge, staring out into oblivion. There's a distant look in his eyes, as if he's straining or hoping to see something in the blackness of the night sky, perhaps an answer to a prayer of some sort, and an empty, desolate expression crosses him. I'm confused; he had been whooping with joy nearly a few hours ago.

"What's wrong?" I say, trying to lighten the mood. "Did Bonnie drink all the liquor?"

The cowboy grins at me, his morose state broken, and pats the spot next to him.

"I knew you would come up here sooner or later," he tells me. "Just can't get enough of me, huh?"

"Whatever you say," I roll my eyes. "You're the mentor, aren't you?"

Quincy chuckles, and we sit in silence for a long while, admiring the quietude of the Capitol at nighttime. The reticence is broken by my voice.

"I'm turning into Cass," I say with a light laugh. "She used to sneak around in the middle of the night, only come home before my Pa wakes up."

Quincy stiffens visibly.

"Do you know what she was doin'?" he asks me wearily.

"Nah," I reply. "I bet she was with some boy, though. They loved her to bits back home. She was so tall and beautiful."

"Yeah," Quincy says. I notice his eyes are shut, as if he's trying to imagine something. "I bet they did."

There's a long pause where neither of us say anything, until Quincy breaks it.

"You know you gotta do good tomorrow in the interview, right?" he says in a strained voice. "You gotta do good so you can get sponsors. And go home."

"Yeah, I know," I reply. Then, I remember my high score, and grin. "I wish I could have seen Cass's face when I got that number. I think I beat her!"

He's quiet for a while; the only sound is my heel as it taps the stone edge. Then, he speaks.

"She got a nine that year," Quincy's voice is as cold as the wind that blows across the top of the building. "A nine."

We are sitting still for what seems like forever, the light mood dampened by the mention of my late sister.

Quincy's voice is hardly audible, shaking and pained, and I'm nearly positive I wasn't supposed to hear when he thinks aloud.

"I was so damn sure she would make it home with me," he says. "So damn sure."

* * *

The next morning, after a quick shower and breakfast, I'm sitting in a cushioned room with Marcy Millington, alone with her. She doesn't seem to be aware of the awkward silence from my part as she trills on and on about this and that. Marcy is supposed to be training me for my interview, making sure I make a good impression; right now, though, I'm nearly dozing off, falling asleep as she continues to speak about the importance of manners and grace.

She gets up suddenly, and thrusts forward a pair of shoes with tall heels, similar to the ones she had on.

"Lord," I say with a sly grin. "I can use these as a weapon tomorrow. You sure I ain't allowed to keep these?"

Marcy rolls her eyes at me, not in the mood for my games.

"Up, up, up! Put them on! We don't have all day!" She pulls me to stand after I slip on the wretched things, and nearly tumble when she does so.

"How on earth do you walk on these?" I ask her incredulously, steadying myself with a hand on the couch. I tip back each time I release my grip.

"Keep your legs straight," Marcy advises as I totter my way through the room. "Step with your heels first, then shift your weight forward. Good! Keep your legs close together!"

After an hour in the blistering shoes, I'm finally released from Marcy and now spending an hour with Bonnie, my mentor, as she tells me who I'm supposed to pretend be to best gain the Capitol's attention, and in turn, sponsors that might end up saving my life over the next three weeks. She waltzes in, the door slamming shut behind her, and stands in front of me with her hands at her hips. For the first time, I appreciate how beautiful Bonnie really is, despite her pained, pale blue eyes. Her short blonde hair is pulled back in a perky ponytail, and her blue blouse is tight around her torso. A playful smiles tugs at her lips as she glances down at my torn feet.

"Looks like I got here just in time, huh?" Bonnie winks at me. "Marcy almost killed your feet, there. Sit on down! We got work to do."

I comply, and find a seat on the plush sofa, Bonnie sitting across from me.

"I think you already know what we're doin' with you," she tells me. "Where we're goin'. You're a rough and tough cowgirl from 10 who just wants to get this over with 'cause you sure as hell gonna be the victor. You're mean and brutal. But you look so damn adorable the Capitol and their rich-ass sponsors won't be able to help themselves!"

Bonnie is so enthusiastic about all of this that I even find myself smiling as she lists all of the things I must do, say, and feel to gain the affections of the "rich-ass sponsors".

"All right, now, let's give it a go," she says as she grabs my hand, fluttering her eyelashes at me, a sickeningly sweet smile spreading across her face. "Pretend I'm Caesar."

I nearly choke holding back laughter.

"So, Willa, dear," she says in a deep voice. "What did you feel when you came up on stage here?"

"Well, Caesar," I say. "To be honest, I was thinkin' that you're starting to look more and more like a woman everyday."

Bonnie rolls her eyes and swats my shoulder, but I hear a light chuckle rising from her throat.

"You're just like your damn sister, Willa. Quincy was right about you."

My eyebrows furrow at the sudden, out of place mention of Quincy, but I ignore it as Bonnie speaks once more.

"Looks like we ain't gonna have no trouble with you."

* * *

Eventually, after Bonnie nearly has my throat raw from both ridiculous laughter and practicing speaking, I'm escorted to the prepping room where my stylist, Tertia, awaits me with open arms.

"I heard how well you did with the Gamemakers!" Tertia wraps her thin, pale arms around me, careful not to bump me with her long, red fingernails. "Now, eat quickly so we can knock them dead out there, too."

I stare longingly at the array of food on display at the coffee table in between two leather loveseats. Eagerly grabbing at a plate of meat, throwing the hours of lessons about table manners with Marcy this morning out the window, I chow down while Tertia is shuffling through racks, looking for something.

"Ah! Here it is!" Her voice is as excited as Bonnie's had been a few hours ago, and I can't help but grin as she pulls out a long piece of fabric.

It really is stunning and Tertia really is talented; it is a long, sleeveless jumpsuit, flowing and loose, but tightened around the waist with a deep, provocative cut in the front and back. The suit is a darker shade of what my dress from the Ceremonies had been, the color of dusk in the west, and is a sheer, soft material.

"I know what you're thinking," Tertia says, handing it to me to try on before they make alterations. "_It's not a dress. _But you are a strong, fearless cowgirl who has no time for such things. All you need is your boots and your horse."

At the mention of my boots, I visibly lighten up. My stylist smiles at my perking up brightly, and pulls out a pair of riding boots, complete with spurs, made of supple leather and encrusted with expensive studs.

Eagerly, I finish putting on the jumpsuit with the help of Tertia, and try on the boots. She stands back proudly, looking me over.

"You look so much like your sister," she says quietly. "I remember having her my first year as a stylist. You're her spitting image. Poor Quincy must be driving himself insane."

I frown at her mention of Quincy, not fully understanding what she had meant. She breaks me out of my wonder, though, and points to my feet.

"Your suit is drops over your shoes anyway," she tells me. "But they're going to hear your spurs."

"Just like at the Reaping?"

Tertia nods her head eagerly.

"Just like at the Reaping."

* * *

Weston and I sit in a white room with all of the other nervous, apprehensive tributes, waiting once more, but this time, it is for the interviews to begin. District 1, Glimmer, dressed in a thin, nearly transparent gown, is up first. She shoots me a deadly look before climbing up the stairs in impossibly high heels and even more impossible grace after she had been called up, ready to be interviewed.

The roar of the crowd is deafening on the large television screen in front of us, but I ignore it, not eager to watch her incredulously sweet performance.

I glance around at the other teens, admiring their outfits, each one more flattering then the rest. My eyes fall on Cato, and he sees me looking. Once more, we are in a silent tussle, not tearing our gazes from one another. He is the one to look away from my eyes first, though, and instead, his stare travels down to my costume. My face reddens immediately, realizing how deep the front cut of the jumpsuit is and how much it reveals; I instantly scoot in closer to West, hiding behind him.

Weston is confused by my sudden actions for a moment, pulling back slightly, and then he sees Cato staring me down. My district partner narrows his eyes at the boy from 2, who scoffs and looks away, deeming us unworthy of his attentions any longer.

"You all right?" Weston asks me. "Should I get Quincy?"

I look over at Quincy and Bonnie who are conversing loudly with some of the other mentors; I think one is from 12, and the other from 11. Lower districts stick together, I assume. Finnick Odair makes a sudden appearance, walking through the metal elevator doors, and I hold my breath as he walks by and towards the other mentors.

Quincy, almost instantaneously, stiffens at the sight of the victor from the fishing district. I frown. Hadn't it been him who defended the man who killed my sister in the Games nine years ago? I ponder the strange reaction until I hear my name being called from the stage.

"Please welcome, the rough and tough cowgirl from District 10, Willa Whitlock!" Caesar's voice is booming through the microphone as I make my way up the stairs, breath hitched in my throat, trying to remember what Bonnie had told me before the cameras find me.

_Walk tall, walk smooth, walk with swagger._

Each time my heel hits the colored floors of the stage, my spurs rattle. Somehow, they overpower the cacophonous, ear-splitting crowd. I manage to walk carelessly down the stage and to the seats, where Caesar takes my hand just as Bonnie had earlier today, and I bit my lip to hide my amused laughter.

"Well," Caesar begins as we both sit down. "You look simply remarkable. Unforgettable! You surely stand out."

"Thank you," I lean back in my seat, kicking back, and crossing my boots at the ankles. "I really tried."

The crowd laughs eagerly, eating up my fake confidence.

Caesar laughs whole-heartedly. "Now, dear, tell me. How did you feel when you heard your name being called at the Reaping?"

I lick my lips and pretend to ponder deeply for a moment, before starting to reply.

"To be honest, Caesar," I tell him, playing up my western accent as Bonnie had told me to. "I'm a semi-literate farmer. I ain't really in the power game."

More laughter at my humorous, humble honesty.

"But, I must say," I continue, a cocky grin spreading across my face. "After seeing some of the kids from the other districts..." I shake my head playfully. "I don't think I've been less showed up in my entire life!"

The crowd applauds, waves of ringing laughter echoing through the building.

"So," Caesar grins at me. "Are you saying the other tributes are less than adequate?"

"Well, Caesar, stupid is the word we use back home," I retort.

It takes a while for the audience to calm down, howling in amusement. Even Ceasar is practically guffawing at my blunt insult. I grin brightly at the cameras, hoping that I'm making Bonnie and Quincy proud.

"Are you, Willa, a worthwhile competitor? Are you going to win?" Caesar asks me, leaning in slightly.

"I'll tell you one thing," I say, pointing to a litter of scars across my chest and legs from ranch work, breaking in wild horses, and simply being a rowdy child. "It ain't no secret I didn't get these scars fallin' over in church. I won't go down without a fight, that's for sure." I wink at him, and the crowd goes absolutely wild. The rush from so many adoring shrieks and laughs is absolutely exhilarating. My nerves are nearly completely gone along with the quiet, restless girl from a rickety ranch; in her place stands a tough, tall, confident goddess of a tribute named Willa Whitlock.

"I must ask you, Willa, before you leave, about your sister," Caesar's voice is sober and quiet now, and I stiffen at the mention of Cass. I feel like the goddess is withering away, and slowly, I'm back to the being the meek sister of a fallen tribute. "She had been in the Games nine years ago. Is there anything you would like to say for her?"

I swallow heavily, my breath starting to become shallower as hysteria seeps in. I try to remember something, anything Bonnie had told me, but my mind is blank.

Shakily, I start to speak.

"I think the only thing I can do for her, now, Caesar," I say. "Is win."

Caesar nods at my answer, content, and starts to clap along with the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the headstrong Willa Whitlock from District 10!"

* * *

Adrenaline is still coursing through my veins as I make my way backstage once more. Before I process what is going on, I feel Quincy pull me in for a tight hug.

"You did fantastic, Willa," he tells me, kissing the top of my head. "No one's going to forget you for a long time."

"Damn," Bonnie says with a wide smile. "You had me in stitches!"

We step back now, Quincy and Bonnie to the mentors, and I to the tributes, to watch Weston's interview on the television. He is dashingly handsome, in a clean white shirt, unbuttoned slightly, his hair ruffled and roused. I glance at the girls in the Capitol crowd, and some are literally swooning as West's deep voice rumbles through the speakers.

"Atta boy, West," I hear Quincy say. "Knock 'em dead."

"Literally," Bonnie coughs under her breath. She's trying to be quiet, but I can hear her from fifteen feet away, and the entire group of mentors laughs at her bluntess.

I chuckle lightly at my bumbling mentor; my fleeting moment of mirth, however, is completely wiped clean once I notice I'm standing close to the boy from 2, Cato.

"Nice job out there," he says with monotone sarcasm. "I was trembling with fear. You were about as tough as a chewed up piece of meat."

"Well, well, well," I say, rolling my eyes. "You're not much of an image of bravery, either, then. Because something reeks of coward back here."

All I hear is a heavy, angry huff of breath, and then he pushes me back against a wall. He closes in on me, sandwiching me tight.

"Listen, _Willa_," he spits out my name with enough venom that rivals the rattlesnakes back home. "I don't know what the hell you did in that room to earn that number, but you're not fooling anyone with that act."

So that's what this is about; he's furious that some small girl from a lowly district earned the same number as him. I bite my lip to try to keep from the last quip from slipping out, but I fail, and Cass's words come to mind.

_If you ever find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is quit diggin'._

Looks like I'm not ready to put my shovel down just yet.

"I think the school is a few blocks down from here," I say back in a deadly voice. "There must be some children you can go and frighten down there."

His face twists in anger, and he's about to bite back, when I hear a low, purring voice.

"How about you take a few steps back, kid."

Cato and I both glance up and see a gloriously handsome man with brassy hair and green eyes, nearly shining with perfection as he glowers above us. Finnick Odair. Protecting me. It's nearly laughable, really.

"I'm fine just where I am," Cato barks back, and leans his warm body into mine even closer, glaring at Finnick daringly, as if to say, _"come and make me"._

"I wasn't asking, boy," Finnick's voice is now clean of any low seduction; it is deadly and biting. The blonde boy from 2 eyes me up and down once more before silently storming off, scoffing arrogantly.

"I didn't need saving, you know," I tell him quietly, straightening out my jumpsuit.

"I know," Finnick says quietly. "You don't seem like the type that does."

He walks away from me, and I am alone once more.

* * *

Weston and I had been walking to our rooms in silence in the midst of the last night before the Games, unsure of what to say before such a harrowing event. Right before I'm about to tell him a quick goodnight as we stand outside of our rooms, not eager to draw out the difficult farewall any longer, he speaks up.

"I've never ridden a horse," he says suddenly and bluntly. I'm taken aback.

"How?" I ask, truly puzzled. "You live in District 10!"

"Promise not to tell anyone," he says in a low voice. "But I'm kind of afraid of them."

Although I'm confused as to why he had decided to share this detail with me, I'm grateful at the lightened mood.

"My, my. Weston Hughes is afraid a little pony?" I can't help but let a small giggle slip out.

"You're mean," West rolls his eyes, but soon joins into my snorting laughter. I'm eager to admit something as well, now.

"I've never been inside of the cafeteria at school," I tell him. His eyes widen.

"Why? Are you afraid of the lunch ladies?" He retorts.

"Oh, yes. It's those hairnets," I grin. "But, no, that's not why. I've just... never been really comfortable with that many people in such a small room. I eat outside with my friend every day."

"Lorelai Bailey?" he asks. I nod, surprised he knows the name of my best friend.

"I've never gotten a detention before," he admits. I let out a small laugh as I imagine Weston Hughes, number one in his class, a teacher's pet.

"I've never been kissed," I say, and immediately regret it the second I do.

We stared at each other for a long while after what I had said. The light mood from a few seconds ago is completely gone. My face reddened; I just now realized what it sounded like I was asking for. A kiss from Weston Hughes. What had meant to be a fearful confession, that I might die with uncharted lips, turned into this. Weston's brown eyes are unreadable and hard. Finally, he takes a step forward and reaches for me, both hands on either side of my face, holding me steady. West looks into my eyes for a few seconds, and leans towards me. I hold my breath and shut my eyes, waiting.

Instead, I feel warm lips resting against my forehead, and broad arms pulling me in. Weston holds me there for god knows how long and I think I might be crying as he speaks once more.

"You're gonna get that kiss, Willa Whitlock," his voice is constricted and feels pained. "You're gonna get that kiss someday. You're gonna go back home to 10 and find yourself a handsome cowboy to give you that kiss."

It had taken me a while to fully comprehend what he had meant with those solemn words. I clutch at his shirt tightly, digging into his embrace, not eager to let go of this poor rich boy. I know the second we part, the second we climb back into our rooms, alone, that we are no longer two teenagers holding each other in a moment of raw emotion; we will become tributes, out for each other's necks. Puppets of the Capitol.

"How did we end up so much on the bad side of things?" I ask quietly.

"Our side wasn't chosen, Willa," he replies soberly. "It was given."

* * *

Right after I clean myself up, washing my face and ridding it of dried tears, I change into sleeping clothes and exit out my bedroom door. I need to speak with Quincy before tomorrow morning comes, and this is my last chance. I need to not spend the last night before my impending death alone. I need to tell him everything I haven't done, everything I'm afraid of, everything I want to know. I need to tell him I don't want to die without falling in love first. The daily outings on the roof had comforted me to no end, and I long for one more conversation.

I dash out quickly, and walk down the hallway until I reach his door. Rapping on it lightly, I'm surprised when he answers the door. I had been expecting no reply, and was getting ready to go back onto the roof.

"What do you want?" he says gruffly, but his eyes soften when he realizes it's me. "Oh. Come on in." He opens the door, and I walk in briskly.

"So," he says, standing back and leaning against a wall, holding an empty glass in his hands. "What _do_ you want?"

"Have you ever been in love, Quincy?" I ask him, a certain sense of urgency evident in my voice. "Do you have anyone back home?"

"Look, darlin', if this is your way of comin' on to me-"

"Shut up, Quincy," I say. "I'm serious."

He sighs deeply and sits down on the bed, running his hands through his hair.

"Yes, once, a long time ago," he says. "When you were just a little squirt."

"Who was she?"

Quincy's expression hardens at my question.

"It don't matter," he says, looking away. "All that matters is I ain't got her anymore." He adds, under his breath, "Damn Capitol took her away."

I stand back now, thinking, trying to ponder what he had meant with that quiet statement so full of remorse and regret he nearly smothered the glass of liquor in his hands.

And then, suddenly and abruptly, without warning, everything falls into place and I nearly stumble back as realization slaps me across the face coldly. What Bonnie had said, what Tertia had said, even what Quincy had said about Cass coming home with him; why he had stiffened at the mention of her, why he had stiffened when Finnick Odair made his way over to him; why Cass had been sneaking around in the middle of the night, not bringing home her boyfriend for us to see, and the way she had sobered when I mentioned him on our ride out to the lake.

Everything made sense, now. Quincy fell in love with Cass. I don't know when, how, why, but he did. It's clear as day when he's glaring into the wall downing a glass of burning liquor. He fell in love with her. And he had failed to save her. He's been chasing down bottoms of whiskey bottles, searching for the answers he will never find.

"It was Cass, wasn't it," I say, not really asking. "It was you and Cass."

Quincy glances up at me in surprise and shock, unsure of what to say next, and looks back down, with something of lament in his eyes, holding his head in his hands. I think he might have opened his mouth to say something, maybe some sort of rebuttal or contradiction, but he snaps it shut once he sees the look on my face.

"You were nineteen when she entered the Games," I say, connecting the dots. "And you were her mentor. She was Reaped, and you couldn't do a thing."

He is silent, confirming my thoughts without a single word.

"And now, you're bent on making sure I make it home. As what, some form of.. of.. restitution?" I realize I'm yelling now, not really sure why I'm angry or who I'm angry at. More than anything, I'm furious I've been kept in the dark for so long.

"So it would seem," Quincy's voice is strained and constricted, sounding like he needs a glass of water instead of the alcohol he holds shakily in his large hand. "So it would seem."

"Why the hell did no one tell me? Why didn't _you_ tell me? We've been here almost a week, and you didn't even think of sharing the fact that you had my sister's heart for nearly a year? That you had loved her?"

Quincy stands abruptly, throwing the glass against the wall in sudden anger.

"Do you think I like relivin' it, Willa? Do you think I like remindin' myself there's a gapin' hole in my chest that ain't nothin' can fix? Do you think I wanted you to know that I blame myself for every damn thing that went down in that arena, so you could blame me too? I drown myself in whiskey 'cause there ain't nothin' else that can be done."

We're both quiet. I'm taken aback by his sudden outburst. And then he speaks again.

"Do you think I don't know it was my fault? I watched her die and couldn't do a thing. I watched the only thing I got slip outta my hands like dust."

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. So I let him talk.

"Why do you think I'm wide awake right now? There ain't no difference from night and day to me, Willa. Just darkness," he says. "I wanna see the sunshine again, but my only sunshine has been gone for a while now." He sniffles as though he's crying, but his eyes are dry. "It's just darkness now."

* * *

**Chapter Four  
Part Two  
Alea Iacta Est  
**_(The game is afoot)_

* * *

I am stirred awake by a solemn, sober Bonnie, bright and early in the morning, who doesn't say a word other than a quick good morning. She hovers by the door for a few moments, staring at me with somber eyes, until she says something about breakfast and shuts the door briskly.

Sitting in bed for another few minutes, I realize I don't even remember going to sleep. I'm nearly positive I had dozed off on Quincy's bed as he told me warm stories about him and Cass; I hadn't been eager to spend my last night before the Games alone. He must have carried me back into my room and tucked me in. I had understood that night that Quincy really and truly loved my sister, loved her wholly and in bits and pieces, loved her honestly and rigidly. Every single thing that puzzled me about the enigma of a mentor clicked into place.

I remember one of the stories Quincy had told me last night, the story of when he had first laid eyes on her.

"She sat down next to me in some dusty saloon in the middle of town, and ordered a glass of dry whiskey," Quincy smiled at the memory, fiddling with his own glass of liquor. "She called me Mr. Hudspeth the entire time."

"What were her first words to you?" I asked him.

"_Do my eyes deceive me? A devil walks among us," _Quincy says in a deep drawl, mimicking Cass's. He laughs longingly. "I think she was the only damn person in that dive that wasn't afraid to look at me, let alone speak to me. She was really somethin'. I recall that I told her that was quite a strong drink for a lady, and she laughed and reckoned she could say the same to me."

We both had sat silent for that moment before warm smiles broke out from remembrance of the girl that was Cass Whitlock.

"She was really somethin'," he repeated, this time an acrid edge to his voice.

The dreamy moment of rememberance is fleeting as I'm pulled back into reality by Marcy's incessant knocking. I'm back to being a tribute now.

"Hurry up! It's almost time for breakfast!"

Reluctantly, I throw the covers back and rise from my bed, stretching my aching back. I shower briskly, and braid my hair back neatly, before dressing in some cotton shirt and cardigan. Tertia will be supplying me with the clothes for the arena later anyway; there was no point in choosing my clothes carefully, and I would like to spend less time thinking about it either way. Maybe it will seem less real if I ignore it for a while.

I make my way to the quiet breakfast table, and notice Quincy is the only one not to look up and greet me. Sitting down next to Weston, I pack my plate full of food, just in case this may be my last meal. The bloodbath at the Cornucopia is brutal; countless lives have been claimed in the first few minutes of the Games.

"Listen, kids," Quincy says. "When you first get off of your platforms, run for it. Don't even stop to pick something up if it's along the way."

Both West and I nod, but Bonnie interrupts Quincy.

"Well, if it's on the way," she says. "Then just grab it. Quickly, and then be on your way again. Don't linger."

"No," Quincy says. He doesn't want to take chances, especially with me. "Run."

Bonnie bores her blue eyes at the side of Quincy's head before huffing and continuing to eat her breakfast in silence.

"Ain't gonna be my fault when they end up in the middle of a goddamn forest with nothing but their lonely souls in possession."

* * *

The elevator ride to the rooftop where a hovercraft awaits us is quiet and still. Bonnie and Marcy had stayed back in the apartment, parting with West and I right then and there. Bonnie's pale eyes filled with tears before she looked away, whisking us with her hand.

"Leave already," she said with a troubled smile. "Leave before I make a damn fool of myself."

Sunlight fills my entire line of vision when the doors slide open, and the loud humming of the craft drums through my ears. Weston and I are supposed to leave Quincy now, depart from our doting mentor. My district partner tries to give ol' Quince a hand shake, but he pulls him in for a tight, oxygen-depriving hug.

"Make us proud, kid," he says, swatting at his bottom playfully as Weston heads for the craft, leaving Quincy and I alone for a moment.

We stand there, staring at each other; I, at the man who was unquestioningly devoted to my late sister, and he, at the only sibling of said sister, about to be sent off to war. Some feeling runs through me that I cannot pinpoint, but I do know that I'm glad our paths have crossed as Quincy stares at me with a hard expression. Whether or not the bright sun had been playing tricks or those had been real tears pooling in Quincy's eyes, I would never know, but he pulls me in tightly, and kisses the top of my head one last time.

"Go on, Willa" he said, letting me go from his warm embrace. "They've taken enough. Go and win. For all of us."

I nod gravely, and lean in one more time against his chest before he tells me it's time. Wearily, and holding back a sob, I begin my death march, my walk to the hovercraft. Before I'm halfway there, however, I notice someone running towards me – Finnick Odair. I try to decide whether or not I would make it in time to escape him if I sprinted to the hovercraft, but he ends up standing beside me with a stringent expression on his beautiful face.

"I'll be watching for you, Willa," he says, bringing two of his fingers up to his forehead in a mock salute, a sad smile tugging at his perfect lips.

Before I can reply, not even sure I was going to, a Peacekeeper grabs hold of me, the last tribute to board yet again, and escorts me inside of the hovercraft. There's a strange, foreboding blue glow about the innards of the craft, and I find my seat next to Weston, praying that I won't pass out from sheer terror before we reach the launch station. Thankfully, it seems as though I'm in a delirious state, dazed before the commencement of the Games.

A woman in a white medical coat is walking around and inserting a thick needle into each of the tributes arms. I hear her tell the girl from 12 that it's a tracker, and a scowl forms over my face. It is a cruel device, an invasion of privacy. It's not until the woman's steady hand takes my own that I realize I'm shaking uncontrollably. Weston grips my knee tightly with his hand, and I'm not sure which one of us he's trying to calm down as the craft parts from the ground and lifts away.

* * *

By the time Weston and I part ways to our private launch rooms, I am nearly completely paralyzed in terror. Tertia, waiting for me in the cold room, sees me struggling to simply walk through the door, and runs over to help.

"Come on, dear," she says. "Let's get you dressed."

She pulls a green, weather-proof coat over my clothes, fussing over the zipper for a long time before I notice her eyes are puffy and she's sniffling.

"I'll be alright, Tertia," I say, trying to console her. "I'll be fine. I'm a Whitlock, you know."

Tertia smiles at me kindly, a sad laugh erupting for a moment between the two of us. We stand in silence, not sure of what to say to comfort the other. Then, a cold, robotic voice exits from the speakers.

"_Twenty seconds._"

She seems to have remembered something, and pulls out a crude necklace, the silver blackened by time. Tertia places the small token in my hand, and at closer look it's tiny a horseshoe on a thin chain, with the word 'TEXAS' engraved onto it. I nearly drop it as it places itself amongst the memories in my mind. It is Cass's old necklace, the one she had worn every day for as long as I have known this earth. The word on the horseshoe feels foreign on my tongue, but I remember her telling me it's what District 10 used to be called before Panem.

I glance up at Tertia questioningly.

"Quincy gave it to me to hand to you before you leave," she explained, dabbing a tissue at her white skin damp with tears.

"Why hadn't he just given it to me himself?"

"Men are complicated creatures, Willa," she says with an uneasy laugh.

_"Ten seconds."_

I could have probably counted on my right hand how many times fear has struck me real and deep in my entire life before my name had been read on the day of the Reaping. I could have probably lived the rest of my years without knowing what if feels like to hold back tears of sheer terror as it penetrates you as you stand, helpless, shaking uncontrollably. Now, I would need a long sheet of paper to tally it all.

After the Reaping, the Ceremonies, the first day of training, the interview, and the private training session, this feels like a culmination of the terrible, shattering events it all in one horrible, raw emotion as it rocks through me.

Tertia bids her farewell to me as I make my way over to the circular launch pad. The clear glass cylinder engulfs me, and as I rise up to the white light, I think, _this is it._

This is it.

* * *

From the second we rise to the arena, wide-eyed and dazed, trying to adjust to the bright light, we have exactly one minute to prepare before the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, only one minute to gain a sense of our surroundings.

The foreign smell of trees and wet dirt are drifting throughout the entirety of the Cornucopia; a thick forest of green and brown surrounds us. My heart immediately drops. I knew close to nothing about such climates; I can't help but say I was praying for lands similar to 10. The tributes from 7, the lumber district, visibly brighten at the sight of glorious, tall trees, and I'm undeniably jealous.

_50, 49, 48, 47, 46, 45..._

The countdown is drumming through my ears, drumming through my mind, drumming through my core. I gulp down my fear and try to squint and make out what supplies are strewn around the metal mouth of the Cornucopia, and then I remember Quincy's words.

_Run._

But all I see is a backpack in the corner of the Cornucopia near the forest's edge, full of rope, a few knives sticking out of the side pocket. A hatchet lies nearby. Maybe if I run hard enough, pull through...

_20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15..._

My heart aches suddenly when the faces of my father, Lorelai, Quincy and Bonnie flash in my mind; I think of them all watching me on the edge of their seats, their stomachs churning, hoping for me to pull through at least for the next ten minutes, hoping that I won't get tangled up in the bloody battleground that is the Cornucopia. I try to steady my breathing and remind myself that I am not just another tribute – I am Cass Whitlock's sister.

I look over at Weston in the last few seconds; he's dead center in the middle of the tributes, farthest away from the forest. He's going to need to run, and fast. Cato is standing next to him; he is leaning forward, ready to pounce when the numbers roll back to zero. He catches my gaze, and winks. The simple act chills me to the bone when I realize how unaffected he is by the situation.

_5, 4, 3, 2, 1._

_Zero._

The last thing I remember is the wind whistling behind me as I sprint with every muscle and every ounce of energy I have in my body towards the dense thicket of trees. I reach the Cornucopia before anybody else, but I remember Quincy's words and continue to run, further and faster than I had thought my legs to be capable of.

I falter, though, near the backpack, and in a split-second of impulse, I snatch it up along with the hatchet, and run. I halt at the edge of the arena, noticing the cease of footsteps behind me, and scan the war that is occuring behind me. The rest of the tributes are a good thirty feet from me, not even noticing that I had gotten away so quickly. Nobody notices the small girl from 10 as they fight. The thick scent of blood slowly starts to waft its way through the arena. Gingerly, I put up the backpack and the hatchet, and turn around, ready to run back into the forest, before I hear Weston's scream as it pierces the air.

Nothing had prepared me for this moment. I had forgetten, so worried about my own safety, that my district partner is as vulnerable as I am. I had left him there.

Everything is moving slowly, the foreign colors of green and brown swirling on either side of me as I turn around, just to watch the girl from 2 throw one of her knives into the side of his abdomen. Blood immediately rises, rushing and raging, red and rapid. He wavers for a moment, and then Weston, sweet, sweet, Weston falls forward to his death.

In a moment of impulse, anger, and pure, pure rage as is pulses through me like an electric shock, I pick up my axe, and throw it with an almost inhuman screech; I throw it with so much fervor I'm nearly positive I hear my shoulder pop.

The sickening sound of metal meeting flesh as it slices through the back of the small brunette from 2 makes me almost double over. For all else tributes, the sound falls on deaf ears as they fight their way through the Cornucopia. For me, it echoes in my eardrums, sure to haunt my dreams. Nobody even notices, too busy protecting their own lives, as she falls forward to an unnatural death, thick, gushing blood pooling around her like a halo. Her back is mangled and reddened. I want so badly to shriek, to scream, to cry out in anguish, but I pick up the pack and run away from it all.

_Blood, blood, blood._

I run and I run and I run for what seems to be miles through the never-ending green of the forest, the colors mixing beside me as I sprint at full speed. Something is coursing through my veins as I dash along the tall trees, but I don't dare stop to feel it, don't dare and stop to make the events that had just proceeded before my eyes any more real than they are. I run and I run and I run; I run in and out of consciousness as I step on packets of sunlight strewn through the damp floor of the forest, wondering whether or not this could be just another nightmare.

_No, _I think. _I had just watched Weston Hughes die._

I run and I run and I run because I don't know what else to do. Maybe if I run far enough, fast enough, death won't be able to catch up; maybe if I reach the edge, I think in a state of deliriousness, I will be able to escape these wicked Games.

Something beneath me stumbles my legs, weakened by the miles of running, and I tumble forward, rolling and rolling and rolling my limp body until I hit a rock at the bottom, darkness as thick as the blood that gushed out of the murdered body of the tiny brunette filling my vision.

And then, nothing.

* * *

I know I am asleep as I dream what I dream. I am aware of my unconscious state, but I cannot bear to bring myself out of it.

I dream I am back in District 10.

A parched, dusty trail cracks through the barren, empty landscape, twisting around in strange tendrils, weaving between dry trees and boulders as I wearily walk along it. I walk along it carefully and cautiously, as though the crack might deepen at any moment and swallow me whole.

I furrow my brows as the amber grass of the desert slowly begins to thicken and deepen into a lush emerald hue. The plants in 10 were hardly ever green; it was only a golden yellow and brown watching over the land steadily through all four seasons. I realize I'm no longer in the deserts of my home.

I'm barefoot as the cold grass tickles my toes, gliding through the rich vegetation.

And then, I see her. I see the girl from 2, plunging her knife through Weston as he falls into the forest floor, disintegrating into it, never to come back. Seething with anger once more, I throw my axe again. I am reliving the harrowing scene.

It slices through her, but this time, before she falls, she turns around to stare at me.

I gasp so loudly and fully, the sudden intake of breath dizzying me. It's no longer the girl from 2.

It is my sister. Cass Whitlock. Her blonde hair swaying in the wind, her blue eyes watery with tears as she touches the blood that begins to rush forward.

Looking down, I realize the grass is gone and replaced by damp sand. The distant sound of crashing waves. I am still barefoot, but my feet are no longer mine; they are large and boyish. I see my reflection in a lonely puddle in front of me.

I'm reminded, soberly, of what my sister had said once when I yelped out in the middle of the night, afraid of the monsters underneath my rickety bed. I had asked her why she could sleep so soundly and without fear; she answered me soberly.

_"You stop being afraid of the monsters under your bed when you realize the monsters are inside you."_

I am Finnick Odair. I am Finnick Odair in the 65th Hunger Games. I am Finnick Odair as he kills my sister.

Cass stumbles forward a little, clutching at the spear inside of her. She stares into me, a stare so deep and so motionless, so real and harrowing, and all she does is stare, stare, stare. I found myself withering under her gaze, falling to my knees, holding up my hands, trying to shield away the judgment of that cold, sober stare that bore into my very soul, which penetrated me so deeply, understood me so fully and improbably that it caused my sister's voice to ring in my ears, pounding and pounding like a the thudding, angry ocean waves, but louder and more urgent and demanding; it recalled every moment, every raw emotion, every promise in sisterhood between us.

I give in to sobs that rack my body violently, clenching my stomach and holding me captive under its painful grasp. Something real and deep is cutting into my chest, something that hurts more than anything I've ever experienced. I howl in pure anguish, begging and begging for someone to stop. But no one is there. I am alone. So I scream and I scream and I scream until my throat is raw and bleeding, bleeding with the rest of me, praying that the ground might open up and swallow me.

Finally, I am pulled away from my wrecked slumber, stirred awake. My head is sore and my throat dry, but I try and sit up against the rock. I think it is something of a miracle that no one has killed me in the time I had been out, but I realize it must have been no more than an hour. The sky is darkening now. I could only imagine the mess Quincy must have been as he watched me, helpless as I had been, laying vulnerable and out cold.

I stand up now, and the sudden movement causes me to throw up in ugly, shuddering heaves, puking out the contents of my stomach. Leaning back against a tree to steady myself, I realize I'm covered in scratches and there's dried blood on my forehead. I must have gotten cut up by branches during my sprint through the forest and the rock must have hurt my forehead pretty bad.

_Water._

Picking up the backpack that lays a few feet away, I realize I need water. After stumbling around the forest, impossibly on edge, I find a gurgling creek nearby, and fill up the water bottle that lays in my backpack. All of the arena is so new and unfamiliar, so green and lush, I cautiously snatch up a patch of soft grass to wash the wound on my forehead. It stings, but I clean it up.

Then, I glance at my hands. They are entirely intact and unhurt, just as they had been a few hours ago on the hovercraft. They are still white and soft, clear of blood or scratches. But I know they're not; now, they are the hand of a murderer. I start to tremble as I dip my hand in the cold stream, rubbing away at nothing. I rub my hands raw, scrubbing and scrubbing, trying to rid my hands of the invisible sin. Silent, eerie tears spill over as I realize the sin is here to stay, no matter how long they're dipped in the icy creek. Sin spills from my hands, spreading to the rest of me, swallowing me whole.

* * *

I don't dare start a fire as the sky begins to darken quickly. Instead, I pull myself together and march on until I find a wide, hollowed out tree and climb in, wide-awake and on edge as I flinch at every moving creature in the rustling forest.

Hunger is surprisingly absent from my stomach, so when I glance into the contents of the backpack, I don't bother opening up the bag of dried meat or packet of crackers. Eating them now would be a reckless decision. I sit in silence for a long time, trying to put my mind off the death that surrounded me this afternoon, trying to form some sort of game plan for the rest of my time here. My mind is empty though, jumbled up, only flashes of today's events coming up in fuzzy, non-chronological fragments.

The sound of the anthem stirs me suddenly. The faces of the fallen tributes start to flash in the darkened sky, and I wince, gripping the boulder, preparing myself to see Weston's face right after they show the girl from 9; instead, it closes with her, and then the only light is the glowing moon.

_Weston is alive?_

I throw common sense to the wind as I begin sprinting to the Cornucopia. The Careers must have cleared out already, and Weston couldn't have gone far. I run as hard as I can through the dark thickness of the forest at nighttime, but it's not much; I am weakened by the marathon I had pulled earlier and my tumble into the rock, but I push and I push and I push, and soon, I break through the thick trees and into the clear, dark space of the Cornucopia.

"Weston?" I hiss quietly as I walk around, straining to see in the blackness.

Then, a trail of blood. Leading to him, leaning against a tree near the metal structure, clutching at the open wound, covered in an impossible amount of the red that sustained his body.

I run to him, crying out his name, forgetting that we are in a game to the death. The only thing I can think about is him, laying there, pale from the blood loss, so close to his death. Sitting down and leaning against the tree as well, I pull his upper body into my lap, cradling him. He lets out a moan of pain and holds his abdomen tighter.

"Willa," he says.

He's improbably ashen, as white as the moon above us. He's struggling to say something, and it comes out in a low, pained whisper.

I try to console him, tell him it's all right as run my hands through his matted hair, clutching at his soaken shirt, silent, hot, burning tears rolling down my cheeks, but it comes out even thinner than his words, my throat still recovering from my dry heaves from before.

And then I hear it. His voice is raspy and light and hardly audible, but I hear it.

"_Oh, bury me out on the lone prairie."_

Weston is singing; he is singing an ancient song from when District 10 was the name on the horseshoe, when cowboys gathered around fires with a trilling banjo to sing songs such as this. I remember my father once had sung it around a roaring flame in the dead of night, strumming his guitar. It had been light music, then, words about a dying man's last wish behind the beat of a thudding instrument.

I am chilled, though, as Weston sings the tune in a pained, hoarse, cracked voice, seeping through in severe tones, and it strikes me harshly how fitting it really is, how acrid and sober the song tastes with only the cold forest breeze as a backdrop.

I hold back a dry sob to push out the words, singing along with him:

_Oh, bury me out on the lone prairie  
Where the coyotes wail and the wind blows free  
And when I die, oh, bury me  
Beneath the western sky on the lone prairie_

_Oh, bury me out on the lone prairie_  
_These words came soft and painfully_  
_From the pallid lips of a youth who lay_  
_On his dying bed at the break of day_

I feel it then, the life go out of him. For a moment, he is impossibly light in my hands, and then, infinitely heavier as he slumps down. Tears are angry hot resentful burning searing smoldering scorching and I nearly flinch as they roll down my cheeks bitterly;I try to push the rest of the song out of a clenching, constricted throat.

_So we buried him there on the lone prairie_  
_Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the wind blows free_  
_In a shallow grave, no one to grieve_  
_Beneath the western sky on the lone prairie_

_Oh, bury me out on the lone prairie_  
_These words came soft and painfully_  
_From the pallid lips of a youth who lay_  
_On his dying bed at the break of day_

I must have sat there for an hour, screaming into his chest, sobs as real as the ones in my dreams racking my body as I shook uncontrollably. I clutch at him so tightly, praying that maybe if I hold him tight enough he won't slip through my fingers. The sky is dark and enveloping, and I'm grateful he had perished in the cloak of the night so I can mourn him properly.

Harshly, I realize he must have been in pain for hours until I had reached him. My head is so pounding and my throat is so dry. I forget for a dazed moment where I am, and I remember soberly; I am a tribute. I am to fight to the death.

Quincy's words echo in my mind as I stand from Weston's lifeless body, my heart torn and bursting at the seams, the grip around my knife so tight and clenching as I walk through the thickness with weary eyes. I am so tired of the death and the blood and the sickness.

"_Go on, Willa. They've taken enough."_

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed this beast of a chapter. It was supposed to be three separate chapters. There must be mistakes littered throughout, so feel free to leave constructive criticism!**

**Thanks,**

**_fortes fortuna iuvat_**


	6. Aut Neca Aut Necare

**Revised 1/3/13**

* * *

**Chapter Five  
Aut Neca Aut Necare  
**_(kill or be killed)_

* * *

Cold. Cold is all I feel when I lay underneath the cover of a fallen log; cold is all I feel as it seeps into me and under my skin. The biting, foreign forest air pierces me to the bone. I think I began losing feeling in my toes and fingers a while back, but I hadn't stopped to care. In bleak moments of desperation, I almost wanted the numbness to swallow me whole, put me out of my misery as tears spilled from my eyes and stung my face as the chilling wind blew across it, evaporating the salty drops and stealing my warmth. My breath was labored and I trembled uncontrollably, holding my pack close and my knife even closer; whether I had been shaking from fear as I lay on edge in the middle of unknown terrain with a climate as unforgiving as the tributes that roamed the piney landscape, thirsty for blood, or the anguish that pounded through my veins, coursing through like a desert hurricane, aching from the loss of a boy I had only known for less than a week and from the death of a girl that fell from my own hand, I didn't know. All I knew and all I felt was the cold.

I was nearly positive I was teetering over the brink of insanity as a soft, repetitive chime breaks the thundering silence in my eardrums, pulling me out as I wallow in self-pity. A small silver parachute with an attached large metal container floats to me; I furrow my brows, sure that I had reached a complete mental breakdown as it lands with a gentle thud next to me. Dazed, I sit up and reach for it, confident that it will disperse the second my hand touches upon it. Instead, cold metal brushes against my fingertips and I nearly cry out.

_Sponsors._

Eagerly, I open up the silver package with quivering fingers and a large, black roll of thick cloth with a tiny paper note is revealed. A sleeping bag. Almost involuntarily,a weak, but wide, smile spreads across my worn face. Someone out there cared enough about me to spend their money on, however bottomless the supply of cash is in the Capitol. Someone out there in the audience cared about the girl from arid District 10 who knew more about the surface of the glowing moon above her than surviving on the damp, chilled green soil beneath her. Someone out there cared.

With a heightened mood, I gingerly take out the warm, insulated sleeping bag and dig my face into it. I don't know whether it had been my glacial outward temperature or not, but the bag seemed to be nearly hot as I touched it, warmth spreading across my frigid skin. I sigh into it, fleeting elation tenderly lifting away my temporary troubles.

Remembering the note, I pick it up and scan it.

_"They're calling you '_The Matador'_. Better live up to that name. – B"_

The matador. The bull murderer, the buck fighter, literally translates to 'the killer' in some dead language we had brushed upon in school once. The matador enters the arena with a calm expression and steady hands that contrasts directly with the huffing, raging creature that harnesses brute strength. Both have only one objective in mind – to kill the other; only one may exit the arena with their life. If I'm the matador, then the bull must be…

_Cato._

I shudder, but almost instantly I'm relieved of the harrowing feeling. The Capitol knew close to nothing about my interactions with the furious boy from 2; it would be next to impossible for them to pit me up against him without knowing what had gone down during those few days before the Games. I must have earned the nickname with how coldly and stoically, almost with robotic precision, I had thrown that axe into Cato's district partner after she pierced Weston, barely flinching as she fell. A girl from a lowly district unknowingly taking out a trained Career.

"_Better live up to that name."_

Bonnie's words replay in my mind as I pick up the sleeping bag and curl up in it, still clutching my knife and staring out into the dark thickness with perceptive eyes, completely on edge. I knew what she had meant. I needed to remain as cold and unaffected as possible to keep the sponsors rolling in. I had to become the matador.

* * *

Sleep does not find me easily in the Games. After the boom of a fired cannon echoes throughout the arena and stirs me, I lie awake for the rest of the long night. Another tribute has fallen. I shut my eyes and try to think of who is left; the thirteenth cannon means eleven tributes are left. After the Cornucopia, I know only four Careers are left – Cato, both from 1, and the girl from 4. Katniss from 12, the girl on fire, and her district partner are still in the Games, as well as the small girl and huge boy from 11, the unremarkable girl from 8, the quick boy from 3, and the girl from 5. I wonder who had been the next victim; silently, I hope it hadn't been anyone from the lower districts, especially not the girl from 12. If I shall perish within the boundaries of this arena, the victor might as well be the girl on fire who had volunteered for her little sister, who now undoubtedly is lying awake along with me back home in District 12, guilt settling uncomfortably in her gut as it had in mine nine years ago.

I think of my father now, back home in 10. I think of what he must feel like, watching his daughter competing in the wicked Games another time. I think of what he must have felt as I had thrown the axe, as it had sliced through the back of the tribute from 2. I think of what he must have felt like, knowing that even if I do make it home, he will be residing with a murderer. Cass hadn't killed a single soul in the Games, and here I was, taking lives within the first ten minutes. I think of District 10 watching me sing along with Weston Hughes, the boy from a family so readily hated in my district because of their affluent ways, dying without a noble cause. Dying just for the sake of dying. I think of District 10 watching us sing that tune, that heartbreaking tune that will no longer hold the same meaning as cowboys hum it around an open flame. When it comes on the radio in a saloon or shop, the residents of 10 will fall silent in remembrance of their tributes. I shut my eyes tightly and try to push the memories of home out. There was only room for the Games now.

Before morning rises, I try to plan out the day ahead. I know I need food, and that I need to find my way back to the water supply I had discovered before I ran back to Weston near the Cornucopia. Afterwards, I had given up on trying to find that hollowed out tree and creek and instead settled down about an hour out from the center of the arena. Hopefully, there was another source of water somewhere nearby. Food, however, might pose a problem.

The lush landscape of the arena was so different than anything I had been exposed to in 10; we had thin, dry forests towards the east, but they were made up of Joshua trees and dry, amber bushes along the dusty ground. The wildlife in my district was unforgiving, but I had lived and learned around it. When food supply would get scarce, I would often find a jackrabbit resting in the shade of a yucca or a cactus, or perhaps even a mule deer if I'm lucky enough. My father hadn't been very fond of me roaming the wilderness of 10, though; coyotes, mountain lions, and coral snakes all were habitants of the dry desert. After close run-ins with all three, I liked to think myself of a weathered explorer. In reality, though, those experiences would help close to nothing in the arena. I had no idea what lived in such a climate. Bears? Wolves? Each time something would rustle in the leaning trees I would jump out of my skin, the cloak of the night hiding whichever creatures resided amongst them.

I'm glad my first night in the Games had been nearly uneventful; I rise once the sun begins strewing light through the patches in the treetops. As I pack up my gear and throw my pack across me, the same fear that pulsed through me the night before the Games began starts to settle in my gut. I was used to flat dry grounds and my enemies being in plain sight, not to mention they were mostly rattlesnakes and not bloodthirsty tributes trained to kill. I shudder and keep looking over my shoulder before pulling out my knife and keeping my grip tight. I must look ridiculous, holding onto such a tiny blade with such a deadly hold. I remember what Bonnie's note had said though, remember that I'm supposed to paint my face fearless, especially as I hear the clicking and whirring of a moving camera a few feet away in a tree.

An easy smile spreads across my face and I wink in the direction of the lens, twirling the knife in my fingers before marching on in an attempt to captivate the audiences of Panem.

Although the need for water is more urgent than the rumbling hunger in my belly, I'm used to the burning thirst itching in the back of my throat from a life in the arid plains of 10, and I continue on in search of a meal. I spot rustling in some green bushes about ten feet away. Instantly, I stiffen, but a small, grey-trailed rabbit hops out and dashes away. It's nearly a complete opposite of what the long-eared, dry-haired jackrabbits that roam the dusty prairies back home look like. It's fat and slow, but my knife misses by a few inches anyways and the animal bounds back into the green. I fight the urge to look back up at the camera with a grimace. Picking up my knife, I shove it back in my back and decide to look for water.

Marching on through the dense, piney trees and flinching at every sound that emerges from the thick green, I slowly make my way through. Unsettlingly, I wonder where everyone else must be. The arena can't be that large; I must run in with one of the eleven tributes left any minute now, especially as I continue through the forest for what seems like hours and hours, the sun beginning to lower and lower, my feet aching, burning blisters from the rough boots forming. Thankfully, though, by the time I slip in mud and find a pond nearby, restless birds are the only souls I come across.

I can't help but stare at the cold, fresh pond in awe before I down the water carefully. Years of controlled rations of the cool liquid back home made me take it cautiously, not taking it for granted. I tenderly scoop it into my hands and pour into my mouth, relishing in the feeling as it makes it way down my throat, consoling the burning thirst that had been itching for nearly a full day. The water almost nearly makes me forget about the hunger gnawing at my stomach. Drinking a few more handfuls of the stuff, I pour some into my bottle and assess my surroundings.

It can't be safe to stay around here; I'm positive the other tributes must be looking for water sources as well. The mud and the thriving vegetation around this area gave away the location of the supply. Quickly, before anyone else emerges through the forest, I make my way through the trees around the pond and find another fallen log that had one side hollowed out.

Perfect.

I crouch down and lean back against the rotting wood. The entirety of the forest terrain discomforts me to no end; the crawling bugs, the damp floor, the hidden creatures. All of the arena seemed to be humming, vibrating with life, so unlike the quiet plains of my home. Aside from the lone howl of an injured coyote or the warning hiss of a rattler, the western horizon remains in a state of reticence throughout the day until night falls and the winds whistle, blowing dust against the ranches.

Hunger begins to settle uncomfortably in my gut and I can feel myself growing weak, but both fear and inexperience keep me from moving around to hunt. I'm so unfamiliar with the environment I don't dare rip off any of the berries hanging low on the bushes. The Gamekeepers wouldn't make it that easy for me. Instead, I spy a nest in a tree a few feet away and make my way over, a smile spreading across my face.

The small sign of mirth is wiped clean off as I realize I've never climbed a tree before, especially not one of this height. My face contorts with disappointment, but I'm struck with a sudden dull realization that I dreamed of it the night on the train less than two weeks ago. I shut my eyes, wishing I could be back on that train, giving anything to go back to safety, warmth. I remember the images in my head as clear as the sugar sticks they sell at the general store back home. I remember branch after branch after branch, before finally reaching the sky, reaching _Cass._

Placing both my hands on the lowest branch, I pull myself up and over it with a huff. The tree is cold, damp, and covered in green sponge like nothing I've ever felt before, but I continue anyway. My heart is beating out of my chest and I can almost feel it in my wrists as I gain more feet in the air. Before long, my fingertips can reach the bottom of the nest and I'm grinning with more fervor than I have in days. The wind is colder up here and I feel the icy dew to make the wood more slick. I start to reach for the eggs carefully, placing my foot forward –

My foot slips on soft moss and all I feel is air and all I can do is lay there in free fall like I belong here, like this is where I was supposed to be. Falling. My arm hits a branch with enough force to leave a welt and wake me up. I reach out and grab at anything, something, and I feel a branch. Breathe.

I hang there for what could be seconds, minutes, hours, but I finally make my way down to solidarity. I don't dare dwell on repercussions – on the sponsors, on my survival, on Quincy and Bonnie and Lorelei and my father – because if I did I'd find myself in free fall again so I keep on walking until I find my hollowed log and I curl up against it.

I realize how hungry I am. I hadn't eaten in more than a day, and puked out whatever I had eaten after running away from the Cornucopia, from Weston's death. My heart sinks.

Weston.

_No, _I think. _No, you don't have time to think about such things._

Managing to maintain a cold expression, I shut my eyes and rest my head against the log, trying to push thoughts of death out of my mind. Thoughts of hunger return. I was used to thirst in District 10, used to the scratch in the back of my throat that never went away. Dehydration you could feel in your bones, when it dried out your tongue like the sun burned your back. Hunger was something else entirely. It gnawed relentlessly. It was as though my blood was thinning, my strength waning by the minute. I hold my heavy head for a moment before I lean back against the tree.

I start to wonder where the other tributes must be once more, until I hear twigs snap about fifty feet away from me, near the pond. Fear strikes me as I see the girl from 12 splashing into the water, immersing herself in it, a sigh of relief releasing from her throat. She seems to be weaponless, but I am still paralyzed with horror. If she could find the pond this easily, then who else might make their way over here?

I start to pick up my backpack, collecting all of my things while she's still dazed from relief of the pond, and begin making my way out from the area before I'm spotted, not eager for more blood on my hands. I can't imagine how far both of us must have trekked from the Cornucopia; we're probably a good few hours away. Comfort settles in me as I walk. Maybe the Careers haven't made it very far. Maybe I can wait this one out.

It's difficult to walk with the dark and the cold and the hunger weighing me down, but I eventually find a large tree before the sun is beginning to burn its descent. I drift off to sleep beside it before chimes awaken me.

A silver parachute, exactly like the one that had visited me this morning, drifts its way over to me. I grab at it before it falls, and open it up, eagerly clawing at the clasp to open it. It's tiny, but it holds the promise of relief – surely food is inside. I furrow my brows. A small medical kit is neatly packaged within the container; its contents consist of a few pain killers, bandages, wraps, burn medication, and a few other things I can't recognize. My hands shake as I pick up the note.

_"Kill or be killed – B."_

I frown. It makes sense now. Bonnie must be angry that I had spared the life of the girl from 12. I was supposed to be the matador, I was supposed to be ruthless, I was supposed to kill that girl from 12 in cold blood, I was supposed to kill her even though she was near the point of collapse when she had immersed herself in that pond. I shut my eyes. I wasn't supposed to miss when I hunted for the rabbit, I wasn't supposed to fall.

Bonnie was teaching me a lesson. I'm almost too weak to feel as angry as I do but somehow that enrages me further. Instead of sending me food, she sends me this, and undoubtedly only to include the note. I can almost hear them – what if the girl from 12 had food? What if she had weapons? What if she killed me? I rip the note up into tiny pieces pointedly, and furiously shove the kit into my backpack before tucking myself back into the sleeping bag. The fury numbs the other pains for a little while, subsiding the damage death has done, and I sleep easily for once.

* * *

Physical pain is inconsequential.

I may not be much of the thinking type, but this much is certain. Blood, cuts, and ragged skin that send shocks through my nerves and through my body only remind me that I'm alive, remind me that I'm not dead just yet. I've been stung before, been bitten, been stabbed, been smashed over the head with a glass bottle. I've been slapped, pinched, bucked off of my horse; all are souvenirs from life in 10. But whatever had been coursing through my veins these few nights, pounding with a sense of urgency; that was different. That _hurt. _It had burned in my stomach, burned in my chest, burned behind my eyes. The cruel blade of death had struck me once more, leaving me withering under its grasp of pure emotional agony. But physical pain? Physical pain was inconsequential.

I tried to remind myself of this as I woke up to heat encircling me, smoke invading my lungs, threatening to suffocate me, a wall of fire descending on me. Something catches onto my jacket as I jump up, grabbing my sleeping back and pack, singeing my skin and leaving a red welt on my forearm. A sharp, involuntary intake of breath from the searing pain. Bad move. I inhale a horrible amount of the gray stuff that's rising from the flames and I start to cough.

_Move, Willa._

I start to run, sprinting and dodging through the fiery pines, following the wildlife that emerged out of the ignited forest, eager to escape with their lives. They're much faster than I, but I try and keep up as adrenaline is pumping.

This was no accident. There had been a nearly apocalyptic fire that blew through the dry plains of 10 a long, long time ago – before Cass and I had even been born. My father was my age when it happened. They say it had been an accident, maybe even a natural occurrence, but from the way the teachers at school grimace when we touch upon the subject, it was probably much simpler than that. It was the year Bonnie had won the Games, the first time in a long while we had accrued a victor, the first time in a long while that the outlying District 10 was the district in celebration as Bonnie MacFarlane returned to her home. But nothing was that simple. It never was with the Capitol.

I still, to this day, have no idea what had gone down that year in the Games. I wasn't sure I wanted to know. All I knew was that the results of the flames that licked at the plains had been devastating; fire swallowed our lands, scarfing down our humble crops and scorching our cattle. The dry, amber grass was now wiped clean off of the face of the earth, blackened and blazed by the scalding temperatures. I remember, though, one thing from the photos in our worn history books – the fire had been strangely patterned, the flames unnaturally uniform and tall as it burned its way through our plains, especially compared to the natural, cleansing fires that occasionally occurred near the yuccas in the western-most part of our district. The fire was easily man-made, just like the tendrils of heat that are burning through the arena right now.

I hurdle over a burning log, barely clearing it over the flames. Quickly, I take off my jacket and shove both it and my sleeping bag into my pack and sling it over my shoulder. No need for extra fabric hanging around, waiting to be singed. I run and run but the flames seem to have no end; I wonder whether the Gamemakers are angry at the fact that I hadn't lived up to my name, hadn't killed that girl from 12.

The girl from 12. I glance around, and see her jumping down from a tree with an orange pack and a sleeping bag similar to mine. She doesn't notice me as we both run from the flames, clutching on to our packs for dear life.

I continue sprinting, hopping my way as carefully as I can through the burning patches of forest floor. And then, a ball of fire whistles past my head, over and hitting a tree as it withers and begins to tumble. I hear a yelp of pain.

Turning around for a moment, I see her – Katniss from 12. The fallen tree had hit her and incinerated the top of her leg, much worse than my arm, her long brown braid blackened by the fire. She's wincing, struggling to get up, and all I see is another ball of fire threatening to hit her as it flies full speed at her head. I grit my teeth, reminding myself she had a sister back home; I cry out her name, running full-speed towards her, Weston's words echoing in my mind.

_"Us underdogs gotta stick together."_

I push her down, both of us landing against the ground with a thud as the ball barely clears over our heads and hits a tree. I grasp at the fabric of her jacket, pulling her up and then push her in the direction of the clear forest.

"Run," I manage to cry out in a hoarse, cracked voice.

Looks like the Matador is taking a little break.

She nods at me, fear prevalent in her eyes as she starts to run, not questioning the girl from 10 who had killed a Career in cold blood but was saving her. I follow her lead, but we break away from each other once we're in the clear. I continue to run, run as far from the engulfing flames as possible. I decide I'm never going to complain about the cold ever again as I collapse near the creek I had found before, dipping my burned forearm into the cool water, a sigh of relief escaping from my mouth.

And then, the heaves come. Dry, ugly heaves that come in burning coughs, the smoke that had clenched at my lungs a few minutes ago coming back with a vengeance. With trembling hands, I drink the entire contents of my water bottle in attempt to calm it down to no avail. The pain engulfs my chest, my throat improbably dry no matter how many times I chug down the water.

_Physical pain is inconsequential._

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, tears pooling over.

_Physical pain is inconsequential._

The burning in my arm is no longer subsided; it's back, scorching and searing, the ugly, red welt glaring at me. I remember the burn medication in my pack, and quickly take it out, so incredibly grateful that Bonnie had decided to send me that medical kit, even though it had been a warning. The instant I spread the cooling gel over my arm, relief spreads and the effect is nearly magical. I lay back, now, allowing myself to shut my eyes and rest for a while. Anytime pain begins to burn once more, I try and remember to keep a steady, cool face, not showing how badly it hurts, even though tears threaten to spill over. Anytime the searing welt starts to register once more, I remember that what my father, Quincy, Bonnie, and Lorelei must be feeling; watching me withering in anguish must be much, much worse than anything I can feel.

_Physical pain is inconsequential._

* * *

By the time I rise, rosy streaks have begun to peek out through the tops of the trees, the yellow sun beginning to ascend. Immediately, I glance around to make sure my surroundings are clear. Aside from a few mossy rocks, the ground around me is empty. I slump back against the tree I was sleeping on, and remember to check my burn. It's almost entirely healed, and although my throat is still singeing, after a gallon of water, it's starting to feel much better. I should probably get going before the sun heats its peak; morning has always been my favorite time of the day. After a few attempts to braid my already dirty and burnt hair, I give up and simply pull it back into a low knot. Cass was always the one who would take care of those sorts of things; she never really had the chance to pass it on. My mouth suddenly tastes bitter. I bite my check and sling my pack over my shoulder and start to move on.

I'm not exactly sure where I'm going, but I decide it can't be safe staying around in one spot; I learned that just yesterday. I should probably find food. There had been a shocking amount of edible game that emerged from that forest during the fire. I wonder where they had been hiding. I continue to walk through the trees; the only sounds my heavy breathing and the whistling birds. There's hardly any movement in the forest, and I begin to wonder whether most of the animals had perished in the fire.

I break through a dense thicket of leaves with my knife and step through to a small clearing. The ground is padded with leaves and it's relatively dry, a good place to sleep if it hadn't just been morning. I tread only slightly further before I see her – the girl from 1. I jump instinctively, even though she's laying on the ground, but I realize her skin is bloated and a sickly green, her chest still in the absence of breath. She's dead, and her weapons missing. I begin to feel panic seep through my veins. So I run.

_Breathe._

What could have done that to her? I hadn't seen anything like it before back home. Our doctors treated burns, broken limbs, coyote bites and wounds from saloon brawls, but this was something else. The color of her skin, the rigidity in her rest.

I'm only allowed a few seconds to revel in my own panicked thoughts before I feel myself come to a halt with a thud, making contact with something much bigger than me. We both tumble to the ground.

I'm look down at whatever, whoever I'm lying on top of.

Cato.


	7. Serva me, Servabo te

***previous chapter has been revised and edited***

* * *

**Chapter Six  
Serva me, Servabo te  
**_(Save me and I'll save you)_

* * *

The first time I had encountered a coyote in the foothills of one of the mesas was when I was twelve and neither of us were expecting it. Lorelei was teasing me at school because back then it didn't take much to draw a drop of fear from me. It was all in good fun, usually, but I had enough of the rest of the class putting grass snakes in my desk just to see me squeal. Foolishly, I climbed onto August one day after school and raced outside of district bounds alone for the first time. I could feel my heart beating rapidly, reminding me to turn back with every thud, but I ignored it until it fell in line with the sound of the hooves. _There_, I remember thinking, _who's afraid now?_ I slid off the horse once we reached the mountains, past the Joshua trees and past the bushes and the plains, the very edge of District 10. My cheeks flushed with the anticipation of adulthood, and I could almost taste it – the freedom, the bravery that tagged along with it. It was the first year that I had my name in the reaping bowl, the first year that I had experienced that jolt of horror when the Capitol escort reads aloud the name. I wanted to be free of fear, I wanted to be brave, I wanted to be Cass Whitlock. I walked along the mesquite bushes and the dry ground with August trailing behind me, content with my solitude, until a small yelp broke the desert reticence.

A coyote. I had seen them from afar what seems like countless times before, whenever they would stray into our cattle's grazing land, and my father would shoo them away, running out with his axe. They would all scatter within seconds, the call of survival above the need of a meal. This one seemed different, though, and maybe that was just because I didn't have my father to scare them away. It was alone, without a pack. My fears come back all at once before this wild animal that stared at me with blank eyes. I pulled out my small peeling blade and shook it in front of the thing in an attempt to scare it off, but it continued to stare. My heart thudded in my chest, my neck, my hands. Sweat was slick down my back. Breath was shallow and strained. The animal was unlike any of the rest I had seen – most would have been long gone by now. But this one, with eyes that somehow register wise, stood still. The call of survival, the need of a meal, it seemed above it all. _What do you want?_ I remember thinking. _Why are you here? What do you want?_ It moved neither forwards or backwards, and I began to wonder how it got here in the firstplace. The foothills of the mesas didn't belong to any animals – it was barren and dusty aside for a few dry bushes and rattlers. The coyote belonged in the plains with its pack. But here it stood. Suddenly, August ran forward towards the animal and the coyote moves back a few steps. I jumped on my horse and never looked back till I reached the front porch of my ranch. I didn't tell anyone because back then doing something stupid meant a scolding from my father and a laugh from Lorelei.

But I'm not in District 10 anymore.

Cato looks back up at me with hazy eyes and it takes a few moments to register the fact that he's not standing anymore and that I'm on top of him. Finally reacting, I try to stand, picking myself up from him quickly, but he grabs me and pins me down. He tries to reach for his sword, covered in blood, a few feet away. I kick his wrist before he gets the chance and he winces, and I see my window. He's snarling now, furious, but I push him off of me and shove him down and press my knee to his chest. I realize he's moving strangely, as though he's drunk. Then, I see them; the stings that cover his arms, identical to the ones that were all over the girl from 1.

Stings? From what? If they were lethal enough to take down that girl, was Cato near his death? The only stinging creatures that reside in 10 are bark scorpions, and they could kill a man dead within a few hours. Suddenly, Cato grabs my knee and throws me off to the forest floor, wrestling me back down. He's fumbling with his sword, trying to get a grip on it, before picking it up. A smirk, triumphant and arrogant, doesn't fail to spread across his face.

We're both on our feet in seconds. I lean back, his sword slicing through thin air. He's angry now, his strength wavering, but still, he fights.

A hovercraft emerges in the sky above us, flying over us to pick up dead tributes. My heart stops but I remember I'm not dead yet and glance over at Cato. He's dazed for a moment, looking up with squinting eyes, and I take advantage of his state, picking up some of the dirt and debris that lay on the forest floor and flinging it in his face.

He cries out and drops the sword to rub his reddened eyes. Quickly, I snatch the blade and push him back. Cato stumbles, weakened by both the stings and my act of aggression, but still, he charges forward to take me down. I hold out the sword, and he halts, realizing I had the upper hand right now. Instead, he kicks the blade out of my hands and it clamors on the floor a few feet from us. We both scramble for it, but I trip him and he falls just out of arm's length of the weapon. He's snarling now, furious, but I clamber up and over him, legs on either side of his body, holding my knife to his throat. He struggles for a moment, but the venom that's throbbing from his wounds weakens him and finally lays still. There's something in his eyes that I can't register. For some reason, I think of the coyote I ran into so many years ago as he grins at me when my knife digs in.

_Why are you here?_

_What do you want?_

"Go ahead," he slurs. "Kill me."

I hesitate for a moment. I press the blade a little harder and I can feel his pulse, his heartbeat. He stares up at me with almost leisurely anticipation, and I can hear a camera clicking and whirring a few feet away. It's me or him and we both know it. Panem is watching, waiting, for the matador to strike.

He's about to say something, probably biting and sarcastic from the look he's giving me, but we both hear rustling from behind and turn our heads. I can feel panic begin to buzz through me once more.

There are more than three of them, without a doubt, but my eyes can't seem to keep still long enough to count them; instead, they dart from their ragged coats of fur to their jagged teeth. Coyotes. Nothing like I've ever seen before, nothing like the scraggly brush dogs with torn ears that run through our district. These were grey and dark and huge and almost didn't look like coyotes at all, if it weren't for their pointed noses and ears. There's hunger in their eyes and I only manage to spit out one word before my legs pick up under me and sprint.

"Run."

I can hear the dogs barking and snarling and Cato getting up but I don't dare look back to see which came first. The sun is already high in the sky and strewing light down in patches through the spaces in the tops of the trees. All I see is green and I don't know or care where I'm going, only as long as it's far away from the coyotes. They were so different, so different, just like everything else in the Games. Somehow more wild, more rabid, built to kill.

The footsteps behind me are starting to dissipate; I turn back and see Cato running a few feet ahead of the pack. My chest is starting to ache from the exhaustion. Quickly, I pick out a tree with low-hanging branches and begin to climb up. Cato looks up at me from twenty feet away, and for a moment, he looks just like what he is: a scared child. That look in his eyes, whatever it had been before that made me think of the coyote, is gone and replaced with fear. He's weak from the stings and he has claw marks all over him. Without thinking and in the blink of an eye, I tie my rope to a sturdy branch and throw the end down, and he grabs it.

The coyotes catch up within seconds and they're biting at the bottoms of Cato's feet as he struggles to climb up. He blinks heavily a few times, as though the sun is in his eyes, but keeps going. Finally, he reaches the branch below me and slumps down, leaning his head against the tree trunk. His breath is heavy and slow.

We sit like this for almost an hour, letting each other rest. The wolves left almost a few minutes after we climbed the tree, chasing off with some small rodent. My adrenaline is wearing off and I remember that I still haven't eaten, my body beginning to feel weaker by the second, my legs and arms droopy and heavy. It's a struggle to keep myself in the tree, let alone for what's to come when Cato regains his strength and inevitably kills me. I can almost hear Quincy and Bonnie yelling at me for what I just did, saving a tribute, a trained bloodthirsty Career no less, that would slice me up into pieces without so much as a second thought. I can almost _hear _sponsors holding back their donations, beginning to draw doubts in the girl from 10. But I take it gladly, I take it gladly over the guilt and fault because all I can think about when I see Quincy and Bonnie and Finnick isn't how many people they've killed and how they won but how many people they've killed and how they lost. So I sit in my tree with my heavy limbs and I wait.

I'm fumbling with the rope to pass time when there's a heavy tug from below and I lose my footing and fall to the ground with a loud thud. I wince audibly and everything is spinning because I can't even fathom anymore how hungry I am and Cato is standing above me, weaponless because the sword is still back where he dropped it but the look is back in his eyes.

"Wait," I say, standing up cautiously. "Wait. You're hurt and I'm starving and you – you would have just died without me."

Cato is motionless and he narrows his eyes at me. His leg is bleeding from something that looks like a bite, there are scratches all over him, and the stings are getting swollen. I place my hand over the knife in my pocket just in case things go downhill.

"You're hurt," I repeat.

"Yeah, no thanks to you."

"We could have killed each other a thousand times over in the past hour and we didn't," I say, even though I'm not sure it helps me at all. "And you're hurt."

"Like you can help?" His voice is scratchy from either thirst or anger.

"I have a first aid kit," I say warily. "And I know how to treat stings." _Scorpion _stings, but I don't mention that part.

He looks up at the sky for a moment, and then back down at his feet, as though trying to remember what his mentors have told him, what he was taught in the academy, something that will help him decide what to do. Cato tries to reach into his backpack but he realizes he doesn't have one anymore so he nods instead.

"One night," he tells me. "Tomorrow we split up, and then this," he motions between the two of us, "whatever this is, is over."

"Okay," I say. "One night."

Cato turns around and starts walking, not waiting for me to keep up, and I'm almost certain he has no idea where to go but he's compromising and allying with a tribute from 10 so he needs to look like he knows what he's doing. I look up, thinking of Quincy and Bonnie and Lorelei and my father and how badly I want to see them and how badly I want to live, hoping with every ounce of my being that I can see them once more, hoping with every ounce of my being that I've made the right choice.

* * *

The first thing Cato does is go back to the clearing where I had stumbled upon him to pick up his backpack and sword. I instinctively jump back as he picks it up, but he furrows his brows and sheathes it. I decide I like him a lot better when he's weaponless.

We walk entirely in silence until the sun starts to set rather rapidly and I point out a good spot to build camp. It's padded heavily with damp leaves and moss, so I kick some of it out of the way to build a fire. I start to pick up my kit when Cato interrupts me.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to heal you before it gets dark. Like I said before. Your wounds," I say. I pick up my canteen of pond water and hand it to him. "Here. The stings aren't looking too good."

He downs half of it in a blink before reluctantly stretching out against a tree.

"The coyotes sure did some work on you," I say as I push up the bottom of his pant leg to reveal his ankle.

His lips twitch. "The what?"

"The coyotes."

The side of his mouth pulls up into something that would be considered a smile if I didn't know any better.

"Those were wolves, Willa."

I jump when he says my name because it's the first time he's done so and I hate the way he says it and my face is burning with embarrassment because now I'm a tribute who can't climb a tree, kill a rabbit, or successfully recognize wildlife. I cough a little and scratch my cheek awkwardly.

"We don't have those in 10."

Cato studies me for a few moments, his eyes scanning across my peeling forehead, my darkened eyes, over my sunburnt skin and calloused hands. The look is back and I can't tell whether that's good or not.

"Yeah, I figured."

I pick through the kit until I find something that reads "alcohol" and take off the cap. We used whisky back home but I figured this would do the trick. I'm still a little bitter about the coyote thing so I don't warn Cato when I pour it over his open wound and he nearly knees me in the shoulder.

"_Goddamn it, _10!"

* * *

"Your hands are shaking."

I jolt at the sudden statement. We were sitting in silence around a small fire that I built after much argument (I didn't want the other tributes to know where we are, but all Cato said is _let them come_). It's dark now and I'm pulling my coat tight around my shoulders.

"What?"

"Your hands. They're shaking."

Cato was sitting with his hands behind his head and his injured leg crossed over his other one. He's recovered remarkably well and I wonder what they hell they're feeding District 2. I look down at my hands and he's telling the truth. I hadn't even noticed.

"Oh. I haven't eaten in a while."

He reaches into his backpack and throws me a bag of crackers. I catch them and open them hesitantly.

"Just so I don't owe you anything."

"And here I was, about to thank you."

Cato smirks and puts his hands back behind his head. I chuck my water canteen at him.

"I guess you owe me again."

The side of his mouth twitches but he tries to hand it back to me.

"It's okay," I tell him. "I'm used to going thirsty. It's not just wolves that we're short of in 10."

He's silent and I forget for a moment that we're on camera and that Panem is watching me publicly denounce the state of my district. I cough quietly as he takes a drink from the bottle. He moves a little closer.

"Why didn't you kill me back there?" His voice is hushed but I don't know who he doesn't want to overhear – the other tributes or the viewers at home.

I scratch my forehead and slap away a bug that's starting to crawl up my coat sleeve. The forest is an awful place.

"The wolves," I say. "They seemed like a bigger threat than you at the time."

"No," he continues. "You hesitated before. When you pinned me. You could have killed me in seconds."

I stare up at the sky but the trees are blocking most of it so I look back down.

"You know they're calling me the matador now."

Cato breathes out heavily and he realizes he's not going to get an answer from me.

"You never answered my question," I say. "From our little training incident."

The Capitol must be on edge because only Cato and I know what I'm talking about.

"Why did you volunteer?" I ask again.

"You didn't answer my question, either." We sound like children. I scoot away and bring my knees to my chest.

We sit still and wordless in the heavy forest air for almost an hour. It's drier, now, but still cold. It's difficult to believe two weeks ago I was in the hot desert back home on the ranch. Only _yesterday_ I was running from fire on my own and now I'm sitting across from a Career tribute with whom I just shared crackers and drinks with like old pals. My mouth tastes bitter.

"For you, it's a game, a prize," I say. Cato jumps slightly at the sudden words. "For us, it's survival. Whether or not we're going to be able to make it home to feed our little sister."

He doesn't have to ask who or what I'm talking about. He looks down as though he's remembering what he said to me that day in training.

_"I see you're going to follow in the footsteps of your sister, huh?"_ I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood.

Cato's not going to apologize and I don't expect him to.

He scoffs. "Don't act like you're the only one with problems just because you're from a lower district. You don't know the first thing about _anything_."

"I know enough." I'm tempted to throw my knife at him. I'm sure he's thinking the same thing.

"It doesn't sound like it," he says, and his voice is getting louder. "You sound like you're entitled to something just because your sister died in the Games. You sound like you think you're _above_ the Games."

"I _am_." I'm standing now, furious. I was fine with him not apologizing it, but now he's rubbing it in deeper. "And the fact that you think you're not says a lot."

"Does it now?"

"_Yeah,"_ I say. "It does."

He looks up at me and doesn't say anything. We both remember we're on television and I sit back down.

"Only one of us is going home, anyway," I tell him. "None of this matters."

Cato is silent and looks up at me with that _look _again that I wish I could understand but I don't.

_Why are you here?_

_What do you want?_

Only one of us is going home. The air tastes acrid and the tension is palpable and hangs heavy. Cato rubs the back of his neck.

"One of us should get some rest," he says, looking up at a camera above my head. "Go to sleep."

It's an order, and even though I feel like arguing and telling him I'll keep watch because there's nothing stopping him from picking up his sword and slicing through me now that he's healthy, I don't.

My sleeping bag is half burnt but the forest floor is cold so I curl up on top of it anyway. I scoot as near to the fire as possible and try to find sleep. I press my head against my forearm, attempting to close out all thoughts of Cato killing me in the middle of the night but they come anyway. My eyes are shut for about five minutes and I'm nearing sleep when I hear something rustle and they fly open. It's just Cato fumbling with the zipper on his coat and I nearly breathe out in relief. I turn around and press my knees tight to my chest and wrap my arms around them, trying to hold more warmth. Sleep is eluding me and my burns are acting up and it's colder than I've ever felt. My teeth are chattering.

I hear Cato stand but I don't turn around this time and I feel him cover me with something. He says something under his breath but I can't pick up on it. When he sits back down, I peek for a moment. It's his coat, much bigger than mine. I shut my eyes again.

Falling asleep with Cato on watch, a trained killer, was looking to be nearly impossible. It was like when I would blow out the oil lanterns in my room, that first step in pitch black darkness. You don't have anything to hold on to, and you just have to trust that your feet won't fall through the ground or that there isn't a rattlesnake under your bed.

I pull the coat up to my chest and take the step.

* * *

**Hello! It's been a while! I'm really sorry about the lack of updates, but it was my New Year resolution to finish this story, and I've gotten inspired to actually do it. I've already written the end and I'm quite excited. Let me know if you like the new chapter, although it's my shortest one yet. This is Willa's first real interaction/conversation with Cato, so let me know if it's believable or not! :)**

**It's really difficult for me to update the story sometimes because I always end up revising previous ones. I'm actually going through a major revamp of the story, because I want to re-write the story in third person so we can get Cato's perspective as well.**

**Thanks!**

**fortes fortuna iuvat**


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